


In the Air, There's a Feeling of Christmas

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Post-Canon, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: 'Tis the season for trope-filled goodness and vaguely schmaltazy stories that will inevitably end with Killian Jones and Emma Swan kissing.Or: Christmas prompts, the 2019 version.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 105
Kudos: 208





	1. The Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from [Shireness-Says](https://shireness-says.tumblr.com/)  
> “i jokingly told you that the only way i’d marry you was if you did this weird outlandish thing, and you actually did it, and i’m kind of charmed."
> 
> The whole list of prompts can be found [here](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/189418896544/101-fluffy-prompts)

“I need your help.”  
  
Belle blinks. More than once. That’s fair. Emma more or less shouted the words at her. In the middle of the otherwise abandoned Storybrooke library. It’s been snowing for days and there’s never really much crime in this town anyway, so Emma’s got a fairly wide-open schedule, but she’s even less busy than usual with a winter-storm advisory and she’s not exactly friends with Belle. 

They’re more...quasi acquaintances who smile at each other when they pass in the street or both happen to be getting coffee at Granny’s and Emma isn’t even sure if Belle drinks coffee, but she’s friends with Killian and part of the reason Killian came to Storybrooke in the first place and she knows things, so—

“Emma?” Belle prompts, and she actually flinches. Jumps, even. She’s very nervous. That’s absurd. And not. 

God, she hopes it stops snowing soon. 

“Are you ok?”  
  
“Yup,” Emma answers. The word pops on her lips, far too quick to be anything except the very obvious lie it is. Belle arches an eyebrow. “It’s just, uh—”

“You’re shivering.”  
  
“Well, it’s December.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s not what it is.”  
  
Emma grits her teeth. If only to make sure that her sharp inhale is even more obnoxious than usual. “My left boot has a hole in it. So, you know—” She shrugs. It’s genuinely absurd. “That’s not great for the internal body temperature.”  
  
“Did you come here to talk about your internal body temperature?”

“No really.”  
  
The other eyebrow joins the fray. That’s a very negative word. She’s not trying to be negative. Negative implies that things are going to go wrong and Emma’s somewhere in the realm of passably confident that this will end the way she wants and the way he wants and, ok, they haven’t talked about per se, but there was that one half-drunk conversation that was only kind of a joke, but it also managed to linger in Emma’s sober mind and take root in the very center of her and it had led to kissing and then a distinct lack of clothes and Henry thinks Killian is wonderful. So. She doesn’t think her eleven-year-old has many opinions on the distinct lack of clothing. At least not positive ones. 

Still, the point stands. Or whatever. 

It’s going to be fine and—

“Emma,” Belle repeats, a little sharper that time. “You keep going all glossy. Are you sure you’re ok? Do you want me to call Killian because I think he’s kind of busy with Henry, but—”  
  
“—No! No, don’t do that!”

The words barely register in Emma’s brain. 

She will eventually regret that. 

And she’s far too busy trying to make sense of Belle’s face. Her eyebrows don’t lower even when her gaze goes impossibly wide and Emma’s jaw cannot cope with much more of this. “That’s, um,” she mumbles, wringing her freezing-cold fingers together, “well, that’s kind of why I’m here, just—it’s like...half a plan.”

To her credit, Belle doesn’t do anything else with her face. 

And that’s good for about half a second, but then Emma’s mind starts to trip over itself. Or slip on ice. That’s more on point. Seasonally appropriate. 

She’s going insane. 

Her heart is threatening to beat its way out of her body, an impossibly quick pulse and she really wasn’t kidding about the state of her left boot. 

Emma hopes that’s not a sign. 

“Ok,” Belle says, dragging the word out. She’s sitting up a little bit straighter now, Emma starting to feel like she’s being disciplined for talking too loud in the library. “What’s on your mind, then?”  
  
“I need your help.”  
  
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”  
  
Honestly, her jaw. 

Emma takes another deep breath, yanking her lips back behind her teeth. It makes it more difficult to breathe, but she is, at least, breathing almost consistently and she can feel her phone buzzing in her back pocket. “I, uh—” she starts, “—well, I do need your help and it does have to do with Killian and—” Emma shrugs again. The ridiculous is almost off the charts now. “But, ok—it’s probably best if I start at the beginning.”

* * *

She’s got this delightful buzz under her skin. 

It’s like the champagne she’s been drinking has found its way into her veins, a soft heat that’s started rushing through every single one of Emma’s limbs, rising in her cheeks and stretching down her spine and—

“You’ve got to stop staring at me like that,” she grumbles. It’s far more bitter than she’d like it to be, threatening to douse that heat and that light and she’s not sure when she started thinking both of those words when it comes to Killian Jones. 

He’s sitting on the other end of the couch, head lolling on his shoulder so that one, stupid piece of hair threatens to find its way into his eyes, with his legs stretched out across her second-hand coffee table like he also owns it. “Sounds suspiciously like an accusation, Swan,” he he drawls, and he’s actually got the gall to let one side of his mouth tug up. 

Emma sighs. “You’re still doing it.”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Liar, liar."  
  
“You keep going like that and you’ll make me believe you’ve got some rather expansive thoughts about my pants.”  
  
“How do you walk in them?”  
  
“With my legs. And my feet. And an unparalleled sense of balance.”

“They’re obscenely tight.”  
  
“Obscene, is it?” Emma has to glance down to make sure she hasn’t burst into flames. No such luck.That would have been an excuse to get out of this conversation. “Tell me more about my pants, love,” Killian mutters, and she doesn’t think she imagines him leaning forward. 

The buzz becomes a hum. Becomes a roar. Becomes a rhythm she can match her heartbeats to. Emma pulls back all the oxygen she just sighed out, lungs close to bursting with the force of it and she needs to get a handle on this. 

Quickly. 

They aren’t this. They’re friends. They’re good friends. Best friends, maybe. Probably. Definitely. 

And that’s good. Great. Perfect, even. 

Because Emma doesn’t have time for more than that. She’s got a kid and a town and a minimal amount of crime to deal with, but small towns do lend themselves to plenty of gossip and she’s got it on good authority that there’s already been plenty of murmurs about the single-mom sheriff and the new-to-Storybrooke bar owner who wears far too much leather. 

Ruby editorializes too much. 

Still. It’s New Year’s Eve. 

And the words had flown out of Emma’s mouth before she’d really considered them, Henry going to a friend’s house for the night and David and Mary Margaret weren’t going to be in town because their kid is cute and Ruth is demanding and that second part might have been Ruby’s opinion anyway. Ruby is making out with her girlfriend tonight. Or so she claimed. 

So _what are you doing Wednesday night_ very quickly became _are you asking me to hang out on New Year’s Eve_ and Emma must have nodded because then Killian was asking _champagne or prosecco_ and here they were. 

On her couch. With her second-hand coffee table. And his pants. She’s got so many thoughts about his pants. 

“I’m not hearing a lot of answers over there, Swan.”  
  
“Oh, you think you’re very funny, don’t you?  
  
Killian hums, the ends of his lips still twitching even when he takes another sip of champagne. “I am very confident in my consistent ability to make you laugh, yeah.”  
  
“Seems like splitting hairs.”  
  
“An important distinction.”  
  
It will be a miracle if Emma gets out of this night without second-degree burns. 

At some point, she will blame that very specific thought for whatever happens next. Because whatever happens next is—

“How come you’re not married?”

Killian doesn’t tense. He doesn’t freeze or blink or do anything more than blink as slowly as any human could possibly blink, the plastic champagne flute Emma had bought because she knew it’d make his eyes do that _bluer than usual thing_ halfway between the table and his mouth. She might be staring at his mouth. 

Definitely. Absolutely. Consistently. 

That last one is a Ruby opinion too. 

“Say that again,” Killian challenges.  
  
“No thanks.”  
  
“Are you drunk?”  
  
“A little bit,” Emma admits. “Must be good champagne.” 

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“That’s, uh—super inappropriate. I’m—I’m so sorry, Killian. I was just—”  
  
“—Curious?” he suggests. She must nod again because Emma is fairly certain her hair moves against the back of her neck. That’s a better explanation for the goosebumps than whatever she might be melting into. Emma has to stop making so many heat-based puns. 

“I do have some opinions about your pants.”  
  
His eyes flash. Like— _flash_ , all cobalt and something about sapphires that she will make fun of, to herself, for weeks to come, but in the moment all Emma can do is hiss in a breath and hope she does not, in fact, melt into her couch fifteen minutes before the clock strikes midnight. She can’t afford a new couch anyway.  
  
“Do you, just?” Killian mutters. 

“Some?”

“Oh, that was a question.”  
  
“And you’re avoiding mine.”  
  
He clicks his teeth, which only serves to ensure that Emma keeps staring at his mouth and—“I’d like to be,” Killian says, voice going soft enough that it’s difficult to hear over the auto-tuned music coming out of Times Square. “Or did. A million years ago and—” She can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows, a tick in his jaw and tongue that she has even more thoughts about darting between his lips. “—Well, things went to shit and...I ended up here and—’”  
  
“—Oh, rough review of here, huh?”  
  
“No, no, here is—it’s great. It’s...well, it’s more than I thought it would be and you’re—”

Killian cuts himself off, some joke about the ocean that would only be appropriate in a small Maine town when his eyes go that wide. Emma puts her glass down. It’s not really a glass.”Yeah?” she whispers. 

“You’ve got to know that, Swan.”  
  
And, really, she does. 

She knows why he wound up in Storybrooke, a tragic past that was all the talk of the diner for the first week after he arrived. Before the talk evolved into a _them_ and a _maybe_ and _don’t you think he’s spending a lot of time with Henry_. Emma had put a stop to that rather quickly. 

And loudly. 

She knows about everything he lost, plastic at the end of his left wrist and a shadow that would sometimes still creep into his gaze, even when Henry was talking a mile a minute and Killian would shake his head quickly, like he was shaking off cobwebs and disappointments and—

“I don’t know that I would,” Emma says, rushing over the words like that will help cut through the tension she caused. “Get married, I mean. Would probably need something absurd and ridiculous to get me on board.”  
  
“Is that a ship pun?”  
  
“The humor knows no bounds, does it?”  
  
“It was your joke,” Killian points out with a smile. That stupid piece of hair moves when he laughs, definitely sliding closer to Emma and—“What qualifies as ridiculous, then?”  
  
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Sweeping romanticism.”  
  
“You would run from sweeping romanticism.”  
  
“Would not!”  
  
“Swan.”

“It’s stupid that you know that.” He hums, smile widening and the tension is appropriately defused. Kind of. “I guess it’d have to be something good, though,” Emma continues, and she cannot rationalize why she keeps talking. Something about Killian’s hair. Or his eyes. Or the exact curve of his lips. 

Or, maybe, _maybe_ it’s just...him. 

And them. 

In all their gossip-prone glory. 

“I’d imagine most proposals of marriage are good by default,” he reasons.  
  
“Yeah, I just—” Emma scrunches her nose. His hand is far too close to her thigh. And not close enough. “Maybe by the water. Candles and honesty and—”  
  
“—Honesty also seems like a requirement.”  
  
“Stop interrupting.”  
  
He winks. Kind of part, part two. It’s impossibly endearing, whatever it is. 

“Music,” Emma adds, “you know—just something soft and romantic, like our own personal soundtrack and it’d be kind of nice to have Henry there. At least for the asking.”  
  
“And after the asking?”  
  
“I doubt he’d want much to do with that.”  
  
Killian barks out a laugh, suddenly in Emma’s space and her mouth has gone very dry. “That’s fair,” he chuckles. “So what happens after Henry leaves?”  
  
She swallows. 

And blinks. Several times. If only to make sure this isn’t a dream or some elaborate prank, but Killian’s still there and still looking at her _like that_ and—Emma lunges. It’s not dignified or graceful, it’s greedy and a little grabby, hands in his hair and legs moving to straddle his hips, but she doesn’t spend too long pondering the logistics of it when Killian makes that noise. 

A groan and a growl, rolling hips and even quicker fingers, scrunched noses and panted breaths that find a matching rhythm far quicker than Emma expected them to. 

That could be the subheadline of them. 

_Them_. 

She’s starting to think there could be a them. 

Killian tilts his head, lets his tongue sweep into her mouth and, rather quickly, she’s the one making noise. She gasps when he rocks up again, tugging on fabric before they’re moving and leaving fabric in their wake and her bed creaks when the collapse on it. 

Emma laughs. She can’t remember the last time she did that while doing this. That’s depressing. 

And so goddamn wonderful, she’s certain she’ll burst with it. 

“You’re doing it again,” she mumbles.  
  
Killian smirks. “Be more specific.”

“Take your pants off.”

He blushes. Which is even more wonderful. 

“Seriously,” Emma says, propping herself up back on her elbows. “Pants and then just—all of the kissing.”  
  
Killian beams. And pops the buttons of jeans Emma has spent hours thinking about. Even when she’s promised Ruby the opposite. “All of it?”  
  
“And then some. That’s how it works sans-clothes, yeah?”  
  
“In my experience, yeah.”  
  
“Well, then…”

He laughs again, presses the sound into the side of her neck and the curve of her shoulder and lower, lower, lower, until the buzz under Emma’s skin becomes an inferno and there’s something to be said for the cyclical nature of her own internal dialogue. 

They don’t see the ball drop. 

And it’s hours later, moonlight creeping across the floor when her eyelids start fluttering, but Emma is stubborn and curious and—“You didn’t answer the question, you know.”  
  
“Go to sleep, Swan.”  
  
“You’re ignoring my question.”  
  
“I am distracted by your very naked body.”

She flips, another far-too-loud creak of a far-too-old mattress. “What’s your perfect proposal look like?”  
  
“Between this and the opinions about my pants, you’ll give me all kinds of ideas.”  
  
“I’m not asking,” Emma argues. “Just—”  
  
“—Curious, we’ve been over this.” He can’t really shrug when he’s propped up on his side, but he tries anyway and at some point his hand kept finding its way back to the curve of her hip. Like there were magnets involved. “I don’t know, really,” Killian admits. “I hadn’t given much thought to being on the receiving end of a proposal.”  
  
“How antiquated of you.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what it is.”  
  
“So...no thoughts or—”  
  
“—I’ll tell you what, love,” he cuts in,”you agree to actually go on a date with me—”  
  
“—Was this not a date?”  
  
He kisses the bridge of her nose. “This was a, and I’m quoting you here, night on your couch because you didn’t have any better options.”  
  
“I never once said that.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“You are a very good option.”  
  
“When are you off again?” 

“Next Tuesday.”  
  
“Ah, unusual date night,” Killian grins, “but I think we can work with that if Ruby agrees to feed Henry, yeah?”  
  
Emma’s heart flips. Flops. Possibly explodes in her chest. “I’ll make sure to ask her exactly like that too. And you’re still avoiding here, so—”  
  
“—We go on the date, stun everyone in the diner with our super healthy, decidedly romantic relationship and then,” He squeezes one eye shut. Also endearing. Her heart knits itself back together. That’s a trend when Killian is involved. “If at some point, this works the way I hope it will, and you want...me, then you can propose by asking in some ancient language of your choice. I will absolutely say yes.”

He’s making jokes. 

She knows it. He knows it. Mary Margaret is several thousand miles away and, Emma is sure, she knows it too. 

And yet. 

There’s something just on the edge of his voice as soon as his lips form the word _me_ and it’s everything she wants and everything she never thought she could get, what with the kid and the tattered heart and her proclivity to better thoughts of the romantic variety. 

And yet, part too. 

Emma finds herself hoping and wanting and she refuses to do anything except kiss her maybe-boyfriend because he’s also naked and ridiculously attractive. They’re very good at kissing each other. 

That bodes well. 

For everything else. 

“Deal,” Emma mutters, not bothering to move away from Killian’s mouth. He smiles. 

* * *

“Greek,” Emma says, not for the first time. Belle starts typing again. “That’s appropriately ancient, right?”  
  
Belle is very clearly trying not to smile. “That is an ancient language, yes.”  
  
“Any other ideas?”  
  
“This is your plan.”  
  
“Yeah, but you’re a librarian?”  
  
“Does that make me an expert?”

Emma waves her hands. “At least passably knowledgeable. Did you find anything?”  
  
More clicking. A ding. Another ding. A vaguely triumphant noise. Belle crooks her finger, nodding towards the computer screen in front of her. “Let’s practice your diction, shall we?”

* * *

She is not good at it. 

Belle is far too patient.

Emma hopes Belle does, in fact, drink coffee. 

If only so she has some kind of thank you gift for her. 

* * *

She wouldn’t say she’s nervous. She’s honestly almost excited, somewhere in the realm of vaguely confident again because it’s been nearly a year and something about the holidays being _their time_ and honestly Henry adores Killian. So does she. So, it makes sense. The next step or something equally archaic and pedantic. 

But Emma’s legs start to feel more like lead as she walks towards the harbor, a text message from Henry that he and Killian are there and—

“Oh, shit.”  
  
Her hands flies to her mouth. It’s a pitiful attempt to keep her gasp contained, particularly when it’s far louder than the music, notes pumping out through a portable speaker he definitely borrowed from David and there are candles everywhere. 

She doesn’t know how they stay upright. 

Magic, maybe. Romance, at least. 

“Mom, Mom, Mom,” Henry chants, rushing forward and nearly yanking her coat in half. “C’mon, you’ve got to—”  
  
“—You do have to keep walking, love,” Killian mutters. One side of his mouth tugs up, a hand behind his back like there’s still an element of surprise and this is more of a surprise than it probably should be. “Otherwise, we won’t have the benefit of ambience.”  
  
Her eyes bug. “You’re making jokes.”  
  
“I’m a little nervous.”  
  
“That’s idiotic.”  
  
“Told you,” Henry grumbles, and Killian has to move his arm to sling it around her kid’s shoulders. Possibly they’re kid. Eventually. That seems like another step. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius, my boy.”  
  
Definitely, then. 

They might not be stepping at all. They’re running at a full-out sprint. And keeping perfect balance on the ice. 

“What—” Emma starts, finding her voice and she’s only a little disappointed that it cracks. Henry laughs very loudly. “What are you—is this—”  
  
“—Fair warning that I plan on being very smug about this later,” Killian says.”  
  
“I thought you were nervous.”  
  
“A passing feeling.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, not so much disbelief as it is just incredulity that they’re always on the same page and it only takes her a moment to realize he doesn’t know. “Oh God, that’s why she was laughing. Did you tell someone you were doing this?”  
  
Killian blinks.  
  
It’s a very obvious answer.

“Belle and Ruby knew,” Henry supplies. “They were supposed to distract you and Mary Margaret helped pick the music and David bought us the candles and—”  
  
Emma throws her whole head back when she laughs. It leaves Killian gaping at her, which, really, is fair, all things considered, but she can’t seem to stop and the sound keeps falling out of her and she has to move Henry when she jerks forward. 

Cyclical. Again. 

Killian makes a noise when she practically slams their mouths together, but then he’s responding in kind and his hand is working under her jacket and Henry might be gagging. Emma can’t really hear him. She presses up on her toes, lets her arms sling over Killian’s shoulders until they’re flush together and it’s all she can do not trip into the goddamn candles. 

That’s her fault, really. 

“I can’t believe you did this.”  
  
“Can you not?” Killian murmurs. Also fair. 

“I know, I know, but—God, Ruby is going to be so annoying about this.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I have to ask you something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Mom,” Henry sighs. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work. It’s—”  
  
“—Antiquated,” Emma finishes, and Killian jerks back so quickly something in his back actually pops. “Oh, you’re an old man.”  
  
He grins. Brighter than all the candles combined. “The opinions keep coming, don’t they?”

“I practiced all afternoon! Diction and making sure my pronunciation was right and—”  
  
“—Should we flip a coin to see who goes first?”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
Killian noses at her cheek, quick kisses to Emma’s jaw. Henry sits down. On the beach. Someone is taking pictures. It’s definitely Ruby. “I picked up on that strangely enough,” Killian says. “I love you. And yes.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon.”  
  
“Is that not where this was going?”  
  
“I had a plan. A vaguely festive, romantic plan and I genuinely practiced Ancient Greek all day.”  
  
“When do you want to get married?”  
  
Henry huffs so hard he blows out one of the candles. 

“Soon,” Emma answers, and her heart threatens to beat out of her. It’s the best thing she’s ever felt. “Like—”  
  
“—What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”  
  
“Can we do that?”  
  
Killian shrugs. He’s still trailing kisses along her skin. It’s distracting. “Why not?”  
  
Emma considers that for a moment, dimly aware of the running commentary from the crowd they’ve drawn. Ruby probably texted people. “Yeah, ok,” she nods. “You going to ask or—”  
  
“—I just did.”  
  
“Θα με παντρευτείς?”  
  
“Oh, that was impressive.”  
  
“What is happening?” Henry demands. “Are you guys getting married or not?”  
  
“Honestly,” Ruby cries. “This is —”  
  
“—Really romantic,” Belle finishes. “And that was good, Emma. Socrates would be proud.”  
  
Killian tilts his head. “Did you talk a lot about Socrates?”  
  
“Just like...in passing.”  
  
“She was trying to make the lesson more approachable or something,” Emma explains. “And, uh—that all depends on what Killian says to the legit quiestion, Henry.”  
  
Henry leaps up. And Killian finally flinches, as if even the thought of anything except a resounding yes is absurd, but Emma is just as stubborn as ever and a little determined and—he kisses her. Hard. 

“Not an answer.”  
  
“God, you are—”  
  
“—Curious,” Emma says.”  
  
Killian nips at her lip. “Yes. I want to marry you and I want you to marry me and then I want to do that as quickly as possible.”  
  
“We are pretty good at New Year’s, right?”  
  
“The best.”  
  
Henry sticks his tongue out when they start kissing again. 

* * *

It is, admittedly, a little hectic. 

But there’s something about a small town and romance that drives the masses and Emma isn’t all that surprised that everything falls into place. 

Or that Killian sneaks into her room before he’s supposed to, champagne in hand and there are no plastic flutes. They drink out of the bottle. 

They drink half the bottle. 

And he’s still smiling as soon as they’re pronounced _man and wife_ in front of a whole town that will talk of nothing else for at least two weeks. 


	2. Following the Recipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from anon: “i love you a lot, but please stop trying to cook me dinner, you suck.”
> 
> The whole list of prompts can be found [here](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/189418896544/101-fluffy-prompts)

He freezes halfway up the stairs. 

It hurts his leg. 

Probably because his foot is more or less just hanging there, bits of snow and sludge dripping off the bottom of his boot, forming a puddle Killian knows he will have to clean up at some point. But he can’t seem to bring himself to move. 

There is very loud music coming out of their apartment. 

And more than a few pointed groans. 

But mostly he’s concerned about the music. 

And if he’s actually going crazy.  
  
“What the—” he mumbles, tilting his head like that will make it easier to hear. It does not. That’s not how human ears work. “That’s not…”  
  
Killian shakes his head, careful to keep his balance when he finally starts to move again and he doesn’t quite bound up the rest of the steps, but it’s awfully close because—

The music is exactly what he thinks it is. 

Christmas in Hollis. 

Run DMC. 

They’ve reached full-on holiday baking meltdown, then. 

It takes him a moment to get his keys out of his back pocket — partially because his fingers are masquerading as icicles and he’s ninety-nine percent Emma stole his gloves at some point, and partially because he’s trying not to laugh. Their door, as exemplified by the music that appears to be growing louder with every passing second, is not very thick and he knows, even better than he knows about the glove theft, that if he starts to laugh, his girlfriend will hear him. 

And his girlfriend is, quite clearly, trying to attack their stove. 

“God damn, god—fuck, stupid—” 

There’s a very pronounced kick on the other side of the door. 

Killian laughs. 

Another kick. 

“Do not,” Emma warns, as soon as he steps across the threshold and he’s never seen an explosion in real life, but whatever has happened to the kitchen is very close. There’s a lot of flour. Just...everywhere. 

“I’m not sure what I could possibly do in this situation,” Killian says. “How long have you been here?”  
  
“Way too long.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that. I thought you were paperwork'ing all night.”

“That was before Ruby started texting me.”

Killian does his best to keep his reaction neutral, he does. But there’s enough venom in Emma’s voice to poison several people and he assumes that’s not exactly the tone she was going for while baking. “Did she just?”  
  
“Oh, don’t say it like that. I know it’s crazy. But she’s so much better at this than I am!”  
  
“Is it a competition?”  
  
Emma scowls.  
  
“Dumb question, huh?” Killian drawls. He toes out of his boots, not sure where to look because he genuinely did not know they owned that many pans and that springform thing is absolutely _not_ theirs and Emma has what, at first glance, appears to be confectioner’s sugar in her hair. 

And he’s not entirely sure when, exactly, the tradition started. 

It honestly does not matter. 

Because the tradition isn’t so much a tradition as it’s an obviously unspoken battle to bring the best and most well decorated baked goods to the 104th precinct. Every day. Throughout the entire month of December. There’s supposedly some sort of schedule to it, when certain people bake and how those baked goods are judged — although _how_ that works is a whole other thing Killian doesn’t understand and usually he does his best to stay out of it. 

Because Emma’s cookies are...not good. 

Neither are her cupcakes. Or that one year that she tried to make cheesecake. He’s genuinely worried about the reappearance of that springform pan. That she very likely stole from Mary Margaret. And they only talk about the gingerbread debacle in hushed tones now, when David brings it up, like some kind of holiday urban legend. 

“When did we finally give into the Run DMC emotions?”  
  
Emma grits her teeth, a quick hiss and scrunched nose. “It still sounds like I’m a crazy person.”

“You’ve listened to it more than once.”  
  
“That wasn’t a question.”  
  
“No,” Killian shakes his head, twisting through the assorted pans and utensils and it’s not easy to find a clean section of Emma’s hair to kiss. “It’s almost like I know you.”  
  
She sighs, forehead colliding with his collarbone. He kisses her head again. And gets sugar on his mouth. “God, that’s so dumb. This is so dumb. I just—I thought you were going to be home later and—”  
  
“—Were you trying to bake in secret?”  
  
“I was trying to clean up before you saw what a shitty baker I was. Am. Presently.”  
  
“I’m not worried about your tenses, Swan.”  
  
“That’s your gist, though.”  
  
“Ok, that’s not really proper sentence structure either.”  
  
Emma nips at him, but he hasn’t actually taken his jacket off yet and there’s probably still snow on the leather if whatever noise she makes is any indication. “But seriously. I thought you were stuck in office hours for the rest of the afternoon—”  
  
“—And I thought you had all that paperwork to catch up on, so really, we’re both great, big liars, aren’t we?”  
  
“Merry Christmas.”  
  
He wraps an arm around her waist. On instinct, or holiday cheer or something. “Did you start with other Christmas music before the classics, or…”  
  
“Nat King Cole originally.”  
  
“And then straight to Run DMC?”  
  
“It was a rather quick baking failure.”

Killian chuckles, tightening his arm because there’s something impossibly endearing about all of this and he’s almost glad she didn’t clean up. He’s glad he cancelled office hours. He’ll grade those exams later. 

Maybe tomorrow. 

They’ve got to clean the kitchen at some point. And the stairs. 

“Ruby was being very smug,” Emma continues, voice turning a little petulant something almost similar to a kid who has to go to bed early on Christmas Eve. “And it’s really not fair because she’s totally cheating and—”  
  
“—How is she cheating?”  
  
“She is not a police officer!”

“Ah.”  
  
Emma leaps back, hair flying and sugar flying and Killian has to bite the inside of his lip. Something beeps. It is not the stove. He doesn’t know what else in their kitchen has the capability of beeping. “She’s not,” Emma repeats. “The rules have always stipulated that all baked goods were supposed to only be provided by people with badges, but Ruby is definitely cheating and she’s one-hundred percent Mulan’s supplier—”  
  
“—I think you may be mixing up terminology there.”

“Plus, Ruby is using her grandmother's recipes and—”  
  
“—That just seems appropriately festive—”  
  
“But,” Emma hisses, and she’s started to pace through her self-made obstacle course now, “I’ve got her cornered because Mary Margaret told me that David thinks that Mulan’s last round of cookies had store-bought frosting and—’  
  
“—How could he possibly tell?”  
  
Emma stops so abruptly she nearly kicks a cupcake tin. He doesn’t think she was making cupcakes. Yet, least. “We eat a lot of baked goods,” she says.  
  
Only it kind of comes out like a snarl. 

And Killian’s eyebrows jump. He’s going to bite his lip in half. 

“You’re doing the face thing again.”  
  
“Why is there a springform pan in our kitchen?”  
  
“Angel food cake?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Emma shrugs. “Is that not a normal thing? That was one of the first things the internet suggested that wasn’t cheesecake and I didn’t think cheesecake was a good idea. So.”

“Small miracles.”  
  
“Ah, c’mon.”

“It wasn’t a good cheesecake.”  
  
“Yeah, but—” She clicks her tongue, another despondent sigh that does not belong in an apartment already decorated for the holidays. With Run DMC blasting in the background. Killian resists the urge to make some kind of dichotomy of the human spirit joke. Emma would probably throw flour in his face. “Here,” she adds, grabbing her phone out of her back pocket and unceremoniously shoving it in his face. “Look at this bullshit.”  
  
“God bless us, everyone.”  
  
“Shut up. Look at that piping!”  
  
“Check your terminology.”  
  
“Are you looking?”  
Killian hums, pulling the phone out of Emma’s hands so his eyes can actually focus on the screen and—

He curses. 

“Right?” Emma exclaims. “I don’t know how she’s finding the time to do all of this and—”  
  
He doesn’t hear the rest of the running commentary, zooming in on the photo Ruby sent because the photo Ruby sent looks like it’s been stolen directly off a Food Network set. The cookies are all different...things. Sizes and shapes, bells and reindeer and goddamn Santa Claus himself, each one covered in perfectly-tinted icing and frosting and those things might actually be the same thing, but he’s never really watched much Food Network anyway. 

Still, whatever it is is impressive. 

And expansive. There are a—  
  
“That’s a shit ton of cookies, right?” Emma presses, poking her finger into Killian’s chest like he’s going to dare disagree with her. 

“It is a lot. But you did say that Ruby was off for most of December and—”  
  
“—I have to win!”  
  
He’s cut his lip. It’s almost enough to distract him from the way Emma’s voice cracks, a hint of holiday-based desperation and that competitive streak that he was half in love with before he even realized he could be in love with her, so really, he’s not all that surprised when his knees start to bend, a slightly tilted head and he is fairly certain her eyes get brighter. 

Like Christmas lights. 

So, maybe they’re both just ridiculous. 

And Emma’s breath audibly catches when he kisses her. 

Her arms fly up, circling his neck so her fingers can push into his hair and that only ensures that Killian’s mouth is pressed even more firmly against hers. As if he’d ever try to pull away. They press together, Emma’s sock-covered toes barely brushing the kitchen floor when he hitches her further up. 

It leaves him groaning just a bit, her hips bumping his in a way that makes him want to ignore the baking entirely, but then Emma’s nails scratch lightly at the back of his head and he’s doing his damnedest to get his tongue in her mouth. 

Also not a holiday tradition, strictly speaking. Maybe just a them tradition. 

He likes kissing his girlfriend. 

A lot. 

Especially when she’s determined and stubborn and both of those things are almost consistent features of Emma Swan, so the circle never ends. Or, whatever. He’ll think about his sentence structure later. When he’s grading those essays. 

For now, they’ve got a holiday baking competition to save. 

“Swan, Emma, love of my life, you know you are a very bad baker, yes?” 

She scrunches her nose again, a quick snap of her jaw that nearly catches his lower lip. “Well, you don’t have to be rude about it.”  
  
“There was a threat of raw egg consumption with the great cheesecake debacle of 2016.”  
  
“Why are you naming it?”  
  
“It’s funny.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“Eh,” Killian argues, and his forearms are starting to ache just a bit. He doesn’t put her down. He noses at her cheek again. It moves some of the flour stuck there. “The point still stands. So, We are going to go to Trader Joe’s now—”  
  
“—That’s so much more expensive than Key Food.”  
  
“You keep interrupting me and we’re not going to get to the fun part of the plan.”  
  
“What is the fun part of baking?”  
  
“Me.”  
  
“You?”  
  
“Me,” Killian repeats. “And cheating.”  
  
Emma blinks. Once, twice, lets her lips part slightly, a soft pop that he somehow manages to hear even over the music and this song may end up being her most played on Spotify all year. It’s impressive, really. 

And catchy. 

He starts humming when she doesn’t answer immediately, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth with a quick twist of his eyebrows because—  
  
“Oh, that’s not fair,” Emma grumbles.  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“You think you’re very attractive, don’t you?”  
  
“I think you think I’m very attractive, yeah,” Killian nods, and he’s starting to count each audible reaction as some kind of reward. For distracting her from her baking frustration. “So, here is the plan—’  
  
“—You have a plan?  
  
He widens his eyes. Nose scrunch, version three point oh is definitely his favorite. It leaves her eyes thinner than usual, a twist of her mouth and slight flush in her cheeks and Killian can’t do anything except kiss her forehead. Some of the tension almost visibly falls off Emma’s shoulders. The flour presumably softens the blow when it lands on the floor.  
  
“We’re going to go get new baking supplies,” Killian says. “We’re going to make sugar cookies—”  
  
“—Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Sugar cookies are a staple of Christmas tradition, Swan. And you can’t make cheesecake again, then David will be suspicious. Plus, we’ll add sparkles to the cookies. Ruby will be stunned with our decorating prowess.”  
  
“Oh my God, that is not what they’re called. Do you think people can eat sparkles?” Killian makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, and it doesn’t take Emma very long to realize he’s doing it on purpose. More tension hits the floor. “God,” she sighs, “it’s really stupid how charming you are.”  
  
“That’s a compliment. And I used to make sugar cookies when I was a kid, so—what?” 

Her whole face changes. 

There’s no tension. There’s no frustration over Ruby or David’s questionable frosting-related talents. There’s only wider-than-usual eyes and shoulders that drop with the weight of sudden emotion and something vaguely festive, the start of new traditions that are older than _them_ and Killian’s heart thuds erratically in his chest.  
  
“I can’t believe we haven’t broken the rules before,” Emma whispers.  
  
“Ah, well, I do usually have exams to deal with and you do have a tendency to harp on the rules, after all.”

“Screw the rules at this point, honestly.”  
  
“That’s the holiday spirit I was hoping for.”

She kisses him that time. It’s nice. It’s festive. It’s the best goddamn thing in his life. 

“I love you,” Emma mumbles, directly against his mouth, “let me try and get some of the sugar-flour combo out of my hair and then we’ll ransack Trader Joe’s.”  
  
“Good word.”  
  
Another kiss. 

And several more in a variety of grocery store aisles, Killian’s arm finding its way around Emma’s waist, pulling her against his chest until her laugh rings out and more than one harried shopper throws them a pointed look and—  
  
“If we get kicked out of here before I can buy—what do we need?”

Killian scoffs. “The threat loses some of its weight when you can’t remember what we have to add to the batter.”  
  
“Is batter the right word?”  
  
“No, I don’t think so.” He leans around her, Emma’s hand flying to her mouth so she can try to mask her gasp because there’s not really that much space between them and it doesn’t really work. “Here,” Killian says, dropping a box of baking powder in the shopping basket, “where do you think they keep their cookie sparkles?”  
  
Her laugh might be his favorite sound in the world. 

Might is an understatement. 

“What else do we need?”  
  
“Well, you didn’t use all the flour, so—”  
  
“—Seriously, these insults are coming non-stop now, aren’t they?”  
  
“We’ve got enough flour. We need more eggs, probably some vanilla extract because I think the one we have expired.”  
  
“Is that possible?”  
  
“It concerns me you don’t think it is.”  
  
Emma sticks her tongue out. He doesn’t have to look. He knows. “That one we have has definitely been in the cabinet forever.”  
  
“Exactly. Let’s try not to poison anyone.”  
  
“I think you’re overly worried about poison.”  
  
“Do you want to poison a bunch of police officers?”  
  
She clicks her tongue, but that’s the extent of the argument and there are distinct goosebumps on Emma’s skin when Killian kisses behind her ear. “Alright,” he adds, “we get new vanilla extract. We get cocoa powder—”  
  
“—Wait, what?”  
  
He spins her. In the middle of the Trader Joe's baking aisle. Which is also a little absurd, all things considered, but she sounds so stunned and Killian is having far too much fun, memories and moments and everything he wants to share with her and them—  
  
“It’s the secret addition. Who doesn’t love chocolate?”  
  
“That sounds really good.”  
  
“Do you actually win anything at this baking competition or is it just pride?”  
  
“Is that not enough?”  
  
“Oh, no, no, it is,” he promises. “I just wanted to make sure I knew what we were playing for.”

The ends of her mouth curl up, and something in the back of his mind stumbles at that, tripping over the unstable beat of his pulse and they’re creating another sludge-puddle on this floor, but Killian doesn’t move and Emma pushes up on her toes and—

His knees nearly give out when she whispers in his ear. 

“Good?” she asks, like she already knows the answer. 

He nods. His tongue doesn’t seem to want to work. He figures he gets his point across when he can see the dots of color on her cheek. 

They don’t have anything to do with the temperature. 

“And icing?” Emma prompts.  
  
Killian lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Royal. With the sparkles. We’re totally going to screw Ruby and Mulan over. David won’t know what hit him.”  
  
“And no poison.”  
  
“Exactly.”

They spend far too much money on baking supplies. In the name of festive competition. And whispered promises, Killian’s fingers finding Emma’s as soon as they walk back onto the ice-covered sidewalk of Metropolitan Avenue. 

It’s started snowing again. 

So, they don’t rush back home. 

They meander. They swing their arms between them, stolen glances and half-smiles and the music is still playing when Emma tugs Killian’s keys out of his pocket. He’s holding all the groceries anyway. 

“Let’s cheat,” she announces, and it probably shouldn’t be attractive, but it is and continues to be and probably will be on some kind of perpetual loop. 

Even when she flicks sugar in his face. 

If only because it ensures she also kisses it off, nearly ignoring the beep of the oven and the small pile of flour that somehow formed in front of the refrigerator when they slide down to the floor. It’s easier to make out that way. 

And Emma cops more than one spoonful of cookie dough — “I’m not going to die, babe, seriously, you are so worried about raw eggs.” 

“That is a legitimate health issue. Why are you so certain you are immune to this?” 

“I’m fine. Plus, it’s really good, so that’s a compliment to you, don’t you think?” 

He steals the spoon. So he can eat the cookie dough himself. 

And their icing isn’t perfect, far too much red food coloring when they try to decorate Santa’s jacket and Mrs. Claus’ dress, but that was a matter of debate and—  
  
“Don’t you think she’d wear pants?” Killian asks. “It’s freezing cold in the North Pole. She’d get frostbite as soon as she goes outside.”  
  
“Are you suggesting we should get Mrs. Claus leggings?”  
  
“At least thermal underwear.”

They’ve put Nat King Cole back on. 

And there are enough cookies to feed several precincts, not everything perfectly clean by the time they sink into the corner of the couch, snow still falling outside and smiles on their faces, even with bits of sugar lingering at the ends of Emma’s hair. 

Killian lets the strands fall through his fingers, something curling at the base of his spine. It’s oddly warm. Like he’s the one who’s been baking at 350 degrees for twelve to fifteen minutes and—  
  
“Thank you,” Emma breathes.  
  
“For?”  
  
She takes a deep breath, enough to make her shoulders move and her chest heave slightly and Killian hopes. Like a kid on Christmas morning. “I just—” she starts. “I love you a lot. Like, almost a ridiculous amount and I know I’ve been big on the rules of this stupid thing forever, but that’s kind of a thing for me and—”  
  
“I understand that, Swan.”  
  
“No, I don’t think you do. Because—ok, when I got to New York, I was certain I had to do everything myself. Prove myself. To everyone else and me and then everyone else again. That I wasn’t my circumstances or my background and trying to be good at baking is such a shit way of doing that, but I was positive I had to follow the rules. Do everything myself because cheating proved I wasn’t worth the spot or the badge, but everyone else keeps cheating and—”  
  
“—Swan,”  
  
“Stop interrupting, seriously,” she chides, but there’s a smile on her face and Killian swallows. “I don’t know if everyone else was cheating so much as they were just...being a family and being with each other and that’s how it’s supposed to work, isn’t it?”  
  
He nods. He’s having a hard time speaking again.  
  
“And I want that. With you and your ridiculously good cookie recipe. So, uh—thank you. For being here and knowing how to bake and we’re totally going to win tomorrow.”  
  
Killian’s cheeks ache with the force of his answering smile, stretching across his face and possibly his entire soul, another burst of heat and maybe just a burst of his entire heart because the sincerity in Emma’s voice is enough to make him lean forward and kiss her until neither of them can see straight. 

Which is, more or less, what she’d talked about in Trader Joe’s. 

So, really, it’s the best holiday Killian can remember having. Ever. 

* * *

He’s in the middle of makeup office hours the next afternoon, a stressed-out English major slumped in the chair across from him when his phone buzzes on his desk. More than once. Killian does his best to ignore it, but he doesn’t have to look at the screen to know who it’s from and he’s pretty certain the English major knows too because this is not an unusual thing. 

“Give me one sec,” he mumbles, grabbing his phone. It vibrates in his hand. 

And Killian can’t help the laugh that soars out of him as he scrolls through Emma’s messages. Pictures, technically. 

Of everyone in the precinct and, for reasons he cannot begin to fathom, Ruby as well, all of them holding a sign with impossibly familiar handwriting. 

The sign says the same thing in every picture:

_I ate Emma Swan’s cookies and didn’t die. Merry Christmas!_

The English major is staring at him. 

Killian reads the last message five times. 

_Thanks for making me look good. Let’s bake fruit cake later or something. I love you_. 

He barely thinks before he answers. 

_It’s a date. You pick the soundtrack. I love you._

“Alright,” he says, glancing back up at the English major, “let’s talk about your essay, huh?”


	3. Grounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from anon: "rock paper scissors to see who has to go talk to the neighbors upstairs for being too loud."
> 
> The whole list of prompts can be found [here](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/189418896544/101-fluffy-prompts). Tell me your favorite Christmas move on [Tumblr](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com).

There is something about airports during the holiday season that affects the overall stream of time. 

It’s an abstract construct with no rules and far too many people wandering around with ridiculously patterned pillows still wrapped around their necks. 

Nothing counts anymore. 

Because nothing matters anymore. 

Calories. Alcoholic beverages at questionably early times. The amount of money a person is willing to pay for a magazine or bag of peanuts. 

Emma is considering spending an inordinate amount of money on a bag of peanuts. 

She’s so goddamn hungry. 

Because she cannot remember a time she was not sitting slumped in an incredibly uncomfortable chair in Terminal E of the Tampa International Airport. It feels like years, recirculated air leaving her throat scratchy and her eyes watering, and that second one might be because of the distinct lack of sleep she got the night before and she was supposed to be in New York already. 

There’s a voice coming across the loudspeaker. 

Something, something….she can’t hear over the static and that family three rows away. Emma’s eyes flit towards the screen next to the gate. 

Still delayed. 

Still no discernible updates from—

“It kind of sounds like the voice of God, doesn’t it?”  
  
She rolls her head onto her shoulder, glancing at the guy sitting two seats to her left. His eyebrows do something ridiculous, legs stretched out in front of him and Emma can practically feel the frustration wafting off him. 

“That’s existential,” Emma says. 

“Airports do that to me.”  
  
“You spend a lot of time waiting in airports?”  
  
He shrugs, only one earbud in and that probably shouldn’t be endearing. “I fly a lot for work. This might be the shittiest speaker system I’ve ever encountered though.”  
  
“What’s the best?”  
  
“O’Hare.”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“I think O’Hare gets a bad rap, really. Yeah, it’s big, but it’s not Atlanta—”  
  
“—Oh, don’t mention Atlanta,” Emma grumbles. 

“You have bad memories of the Atlanta airport?”  
  
“Missed connecting flights once and had to beg—genuinely, to get on another one that didn’t leave until the next day.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Emma hums — memories floating through her brain and smacking at the back of her consciousness and neither one of those are particularly festive, but she’s not feeling particularly festive and she hopes nothing happens to her luggage. There are presents in there. 

She bought her nephew so many presents. 

“Doesn’t O’Hare have that trippy light tunnel?”  
  
The guy chuckles, a soft smile that makes his face change slightly. An attractive face. An obviously exhausted face. But still attractive. Emma’s mind makes sure to point that out twice. To herself.

She needs to get out of Terminal E. 

She’s really going to be pissed if Delta fucked with Leo’s presents. 

“See, that’s why O’Hare gets trashed on,” the guy says. “It’s not a trippy tunnel. It’s—”  
  
“—Those lights are insane.”  
  
“And almost wound up at EPCOT.”  
  
“Like Disney EPCOT?”

“One and the same.”

“You’re making that up,” Emma accuses, and she’s not sure if it’s airport-brain that imagines the guy’s eyes getting brighter or she’s just completely insane. Either way. She’s fairly certain it happens and she’s even more certain it is attractive. 

She’s still very hungry. 

That’s another excuse for her current mindset. 

“I’m not,” the guy promises, another smile that’s starting to look more like a smirk. “The artist who designed the O’Hare tunnel had been working with Disney, only there were budget issues or something and it ended up in Chicago and—” He raises a hand, leaning Emma’s direction. “—Here’s a fun fact. It can be reprogrammed for different music and lighting effects.”

“Why do you know that?”

“Did you not?”

Emma narrows her eyes when his voice goes a little smug, but still unquestionably charming and maybe she’ll get a Bloody Mary with her peanuts. Like an adult. “I think the voice of God would have better diction.”

“It’s a very good point,” he mumbles. “Have you figured out why we’re being delayed yet?”

“Something about snow, I think. But I didn’t hear that from God.”

“You and God have a direct line, then?”

Emma waves the phone in her hand. “I have a very proactive sister in law. Who has already tried to get me on six other flights.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” she echoes. “Despite what I’m sure were very solid efforts from her, here I am. Listening to you and your out-of-place religious jokes.”

“‘Tis the season.”

Emma scoffs, not bothering to respond to Mary Margaret’s latest text. She’s at least ninety-six percent certain it’s just another explanation of how the Delta agent did not budge and was not susceptible to the powers of the holiday spirit and the day is already depressing enough. Emma doesn’t need more proof that humans are the worst. 

God bless us, everyone. 

“So,” the guy continues, and Emma hasn’t moved her head off her shoulder yet. It’s hurting her neck. “Going to visit the sister in law?”

“It’d be weird if she were threatening Delta agents otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

“You think your sister in law is threatening Delta agents?”

Emma nods. “But, like—in a way that is almost sickeningly sweet. Mary Margaret is far too good to just straight up threaten. It comes perfectly gift wrapped.”

“Seasonally appropriate jokes.”

“I’m sure my brother is in the background helping. They’re very—”

“—Terrifying?” the guy suggests, but that turn of voice has a hint of laugh clinging to it and Emma is surprised to find she’s smiling. 

“Something like that. What about you, though?”

“Also waiting to get to New York.”

“It’d be weird that you were sitting here otherwise.”

“Another a very good point,” he nods. “I am going to New York for work.”

“On Christmas?”

”Not specifically on the day, but in the general vicinity. The news never waits and all that.”  
  
“You’re a reporter?”

“Something like that,” he echoes.

“And there’s no one around in New York to yell at Delta agents for you?”

“At some point I will probably meet my college roommate who lives with his very nice wife and their questionably cute kids, but, uh—no. They’ve got their own things happening, overbearing grandparents and schedules to stick to and—”

“—That’s depressing.”

He shrugs, all self-deprecating and as depressing as announced and Emma is certain she’ll blame Terminal E of the Tampa International Airport for what she does next. “You want to get a drink or something? I could down several Bloody Mary’s.”

“It’s like two thirty in the afternoon.”

“Yuh huh.”

He grins. “On one condition.”

Her heart jumps. And twists. And un-melts a little. It had been a bit frozen. 

“Yuh huh,” Emma drawls. The guy stands up, that one earbud still stuck in his ear and her eyes don’t leave his when he moves into her space, standing just a few inches in front of her shoes. It takes her a moment to realize that his hair curls behind either one of his ears.

It’s...delightful. 

In a festive, unquestionably attractive sort of way.

“What’s your name?”  
  
In the grand scheme of everything he could have possibly asked her, Emma knows that’s not the most ridiculous question, but she’s in a dramatic sort of mood and it’s been a year and she’s not great at trust or strangers and—

She was the one who asked him for a drink in the first place. 

So. 

“Emma Swan.”

He smiles. No smirk. No potential sarcasm or job-based smugness. A genuine smile directed solely at her even when another announcement blasts through crackly speakers. And his hand is warm when Emma takes it. 

“Killian Jones.”

* * *

**3:15 p.m.**

“Another one!”

Killian snorts into his half-finished glass of rum, which made Emma’s eyes bug slightly, but he was adamant _I’m not drinking Bloody Mary’s unless there is also brunch involved_ and, well, that was that. 

Emma might be a little buzzed. 

The bartender looks almost amused. 

And the seats they’d claimed nearly forty-five minutes before are starting to get more comfortable the longer they sit there, a few quick glances to the board on the off chance that it gets updated, but that’s starting to feel more and more like a Christmas-themed pipe dream and—

“Ok, favorite Christmas movie and why,” Killian says, a glass sliding into the corner of Emma’s vision. She’s been eating the celery too. 

She’s not sure if that’s been her best idea all day. 

Her best ideas admittedly have very good competition and most of them are centered around those pieces of hair behind Killian’s ears. Slightly pointed ears. 

Like a goddamn elf. 

It’s very festive. 

She’s almost having fun. 

“Anything by Rankin/Bass, but A Year Without a Santa Claus gets a slight edge because of—”

“—The Miser Brothers?”

“Look at your knowledge.”

“I know everything,” Killian says, another smile and he’s definitely leaning closer again. Emma hasn’t been keeping track of his rum consumption. Just how much celery she’s eaten. Honestly, it’s a lot. “But we also watched those a lot when I was a kid.”

“Seriously?”

“I was a kid at one point.”

“Huh,” Emma quips. “My brother and I used to reenact the song.” Killian’s eyebrows jump, an admission Emma hadn’t been meaning to make. At all. “Oh, don’t hold that against me,” she groans. “That’s—”

“—Adorable.”

  
“I’m going to tell my brother a stranger in the airport called him adorable.”

“And I will mean it. Although I was mostly talking about you.”

She blushes, can feel the heat of it rise in her cheeks and she wants to blame the alcohol, but it’s absolutely not the alcohol and her head snaps up when God returns. In Delta employee form. 

“Attention all passengers. Flight 2539 to New York JFK will be—”

Static. Crackle. A rather pointed string of curses from Emma’s vaguely drunk mouth. Killian’s eyebrows all but disappear behind is hairline. 

“You’ve got an accusatory face,” she hisses.

“If you can still say accusatory like that, then these might be the weakest Bloody Mary’s in the world.”

“Or my alcohol tolerance is just—you know, unparalleled.”

“Rankin/Bass movies have also been known to be a little trippy. Peak 70s stuff and that one scene in Santa Claus Is Coming to Town—”

“—Oh where the lady’s head just floats on the screen?”

Killian hums, a soft laugh that Emma is starting to covet just a bit. Maybe she’s way more drunk than she claimed. “Her name is Jessica and they never actually give her a last name, which I think is very unfair. Also she has to give up teaching for Kris Kringle and move to the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

“Yeah, that seems unfair, right?”

“Only company is a bunch of elves with rhyming names who are all dudes.”

“There’s that one lady. Tanta.”

“You seriously possess far too much random knowledge.”

His tongue is ridiculous. 

It swipes across the front of his teeth when he lets out another laugh, the pad of his finger dragging over the curve of his now-finished drink and Emma has to swallow so she doesn’t do something absurd. 

This is already absurd enough. 

She needs to get out of Tampa.

“Well quid pro quo then,” she says. “Favorite Christmas movie?”

“A Christmas Carol, but—and this is really important. Only the one from the 50s with the possible exception that I will watch the Patrick Stewart version if it’s on TV.”

“Well, then it’s not only the 50s one.”

“Yeah, but I like that one the best. I just feel obligated to acknowledge Captain Picard—”

“—Oh my God, you’re a giant nerd aren’t you?”

“Something like that,” Killian says, and Emma gulps down the rest of her drink. It burns the back of her throat. 

So she needs to buy some peanuts and throat lozenges.

“Why the non-Picard version?” Emma asks. She’s got an idea already. Because there’s something about this random guy in Terminal E that already feels impossibly familiar and a little comforting and she wants to know, but she feels like she does and it’s equal parts exciting and terrifying and festive as all fuck. 

She really might be very drunk. 

“When I was a kid,” Killian starts, “we used to watch that every Christmas Eve. And that was the last thing we did before we went to bed. It was my mom’s favorite and my brother and I could quote Jacob Marley’s entire speech—”

“—It’s a little more hardcore than the Miser Brothers, huh?”

“The spirit is the same.”

“Ah that was a Jacob Marley joke!”

“Not on purpose.”

“Well, color me impressed.”

“Thanks, Swan,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s very to hear at least, even if it leaves Emma’s heart thudding against her ribcage. Killian's jaw tenses. 

She leans forward that time, resting a hand near his. Not on top. There are lines, or whatever. Even in a lawless, ruleless airport two days before Christmas. 

“What are you thoughts on Christmas carols?”

* * *

**4:27 p.m.**

“So, what do you do, exactly?”

“I’m a bail bonds...person.”

“No shit.”

“Well, don’t say it like that,” Emma cries, back in a plastic chair with a bag of trail mix because Killian claimed it was _more satisfying_ and she’s not all that loathe to admit he was right. She’s grateful for the chocolate chips. 

“I’m not. I’m just—you look…”

“Oh, finish that sentence.”

“This could be a possible compliment.”

“Possible seems like splitting hairs.”

Killian grits his teeth, a move that also manages to scrunch his nose and Emma doesn’t totally resent the delayed flight anymore. He bought a PEOPLE Magazine too. 

For the crossword puzzle, he claimed. 

He’s genuinely a giant nerd. 

“I’m one-hundred percent certain you are an exceptional bail bonds person, Swan,” Killian says. “Get the bad guys—”

“—This is not doing you many favors.”

“Do you do a lot of running?”

“Sounds like a line.”

“Might be.”

Her eyes do something—she can tell because Killian’s face shifts again, a little like trepidation and a bit like hope and a hell of a lot like flirting. It’s nice. It’s fun. It doesn’t count in an airport. 

He’ll get on the plane. She’ll get on the plane. They will both eventually get off the plane and go on with their lives and...that’ll be that. 

It shouldn’t be that depressing a thought. 

Already. 

So Emma ignores it. She pushes it to the back of her mind with the text messages she’s been ignoring and any lingering worry about the state of her luggage, flashing the guy in front of her, with his stupid hair and eyes that she’s starting to memorize just a bit, a legitimate smile. 

More flirting, really. 

“Least favorite Christmas food,” she says. 

And there hadn’t really been tension — which is something else she’s already doing her best to pointedly ignore, because there _should_ have been tension — but Killian’s shoulders drop slightly, like he’s exhaling just a bit and it’s very difficult to think when he runs his fingers through his hair. 

“Anything that has those tiny marshmallows in it.”

“Those literally only go in sweet potatoes. Where else are you eating marshmallows?”

“Well, you get candy in your stocking, right?” 

“Oh my God, are you honestly telling me that you don’t like candy?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, one eye squeezed shut. “I never said that, but I would rather eat other stuff. Real food.”

“Candy is real food!”

“Between this and the amount of Bloody Mary celery you’ve already consumed today, I’m really starting to worry about your daily caloric intake.”

“Why the rum?”

Another tight jaw, a muscle jumping in his temple and Emma’s teeth dig into her lower lip suddenly enough she nearly draws blood. 

“Tradition,” he answers shortly, and Emma knows not to push. 

She’s very good at reading people. 

And possibly him. 

She’d like to be, at least. 

Her phone is buzzing in her pocket. 

* * *

**4:54 p.m.**

“I don’t know, M’s—it’s still delayed,” Emma says, not for the first time. She’s tucked in a corner, far too aware of her quickly diminishing phone battery. She has no memory outside of this terminal. “Yeah, I know it sucks, but I do not have wings, so.”

Mary Margaret sighs. Like she’s disciplining Leo. Emma kind of feels like a six year old. 

Who may not get his presents at this point. 

“I’m not expecting you to fly yourself here,” she says. “I just feel bad that I can’t do anything else and you’re stuck there and—”  
  
“—It hasn’t been that bad.”

Silence. 

Emma nearly growls into the phone.

“Don’t do that,” she warns.

“I said no words!”

“Yeah, that was worse. Are you near David right now?”

“Should I not be?”

Emma wavers, gaze sweeping across the area because she’d left Killian in the chairs with his jaw muscle and pointed questions, but she can’t see him anymore and—

She jumps when a hand curls around her wrist. 

“Jesus fuck! What the—”

“—Emma,” Mary Margaret cries, and Killian actually has the gall to laugh when Emma kicks at his shins. 

“What the hell are you doing?” she snarls, but his smile only widens. Mary Margaret is still yelling in her ear. “No, no, I’m fine,” Emma promises. She’s still glaring at Killian, but he’s moving and she’s moving, tripping over her feet and weaving through the crowd mulling in the aisles and—

“I found an outlet.”

“What?”

“An outlet,” he repeats.

“Who is that?” Mary Margaret demands. Emma doesn’t answer. She’s not sure she’s physically able, what with her fast-beating heart and knees that are barely functioning, but then she and Killian aren’t walking anymore and he was right. 

A power outlet. Next to an open bit of wall. 

He waves a dramatic hand out. “Ma’am.”

Mary Margaret makes a sound of understanding in New York. “Not that bad, huh?”

“Shut up,” Emma mumbles. “I’ll, uh—I’ll let you know if I ever get on a plane.”

“Sure.”

“Seriously, shut up.”

“Bye Emma! Bye inevitably handsome stranger!”

Emma implores the voice of God that Killian doesn’t hear that. If only because she’s already blushing enough as it is and his phone is already plugged in and there’s something paused on the screen. 

“Bonus points if you act out some of the dance,” Killian says, tugging Emma with him when he slides down the wall and offers her one side of his earbuds. 

A Year Without a Santa Claus.

“Oh, this is ridiculous.”

“Charming, Swan, charming.”

She shakes her head slowly, but then the video is playing and she can’t remember the last time she watched this. 

Years. Decades, maybe. 

She remembers all the words. 

And Killian’s lips twitch slightly when Emma starts humming under her breath, head bobbing in rhythm to every single song. 

* * *

**5:21 p.m.**

They do the PEOPLE Magazine crossword puzzle in pen. 

Killian claims it’s an extra challenge. 

Emma promises she knows enough pop culture references. 

He gets the Star Trek one right. 

* * *

**5:42 p.m.**

“See, this is why we shouldn’t give kids candy.”

Emma groans, the wall starting to get a little uncomfortable the longer they sit there and God has updated them several times on their plight, but it doesn’t seem like they’re any closer to getting out of Terminal E now than they were ten hours earlier. 

Only now, there are sugar-high kids screaming. 

And parents yelling. 

And a phone playing Mariah Carey on loop. Without headphones. 

“Seriously, what kind of person do you have to be to listen to something just out in the open like that?” Emma asks. “That’s a whole other level of—”

“—Dickdom?”

“That’s not a word.”

“What were you going to call it?”

“I mean dickdom is actually pretty accurate.”

Killian hums, head falling to the side and that only serves to make sure his cheek rests on top of Emma’s hair. She’s not sure when, exactly, her head own head wound up on his shoulder, but neither one of them have actually acknowledged it 

That’s either very good or incredibly immature. 

Possibly both.

“Is no one going to tell them to shut up?” 

“You sound like you’re volunteering, Swan.”

“That’d mean I’d have to move.”

Well, there it was. 

Is. 

Flirting. Just...out there in the open. With a stranger and a distinct lack of personal space that is not _Emma_ at _all_ , but she’s still in the blaming the airport mindset and she’s got several theories as to how Killian knew so much about the trippy light tunnel in O’Hare. 

“Ah, yeah, that’s true,” he agrees, and it sounds like he’s smiling. She hopes. That’s also vaguely festive. 

Maybe she’ll start drinking champagne now. 

That’s more night-time than a Bloody Mary.

“Tell you what,” Killian continues, “I’ll play you for it.”

“What?”

“Play. To go yell at the dicks.”

“Do we have to call them dicks?”

“I would suggest we don’t call them dicks to their faces. But if no one else is going to do something about the noise, especially the Mariah Carey dick—”

“—Oh that’s a sentence—”

“—Then, I think, it is up to us to save everyone’s sanity.”

Emma laughs, body shaking against Killian’s side. He doesn’t tell her to move. She doesn’t think he will. “What are your terms, then?”

“Best two out of three. Rock, paper, scissors. Whoever loses has to go over and tell the aforementioned Mariah Carey dick to shut up.”

“Deal.”

"Alright, you ready?”

Emma nods, pushing back up so she can move her hand behind her back, and Killian quirks an eyebrow. “You have to hide your move,” she reasons. “Otherwise none of this is fun.”  
  
“And we’re having fun, are we?”

“On three?”

“On three.”

“One, two, three and—”

She throws paper. To cover his rock. Emma lets out a sound she’s not entirely convinced she’s ever made before, part joy and part fun and even more flirting, Killian’s eyes flashing when they meet hers. 

They really are ridiculously blue. 

“Alright, that’s one,” he says, and she mumbles _I can count_ under her breath. It makes the ends of his mouth curl up. “Ready?”

“You’ve got to win now, you know.”

“Yes, thank you, Swan.”

She sticks her tongue out. 

And throws scissors. To his paper. 

Emma punches the air. It’s absurd and as loud as the dicks, but she doesn’t have to go to talk to the dicks and Killian only grumbles a little when he stands up, a half-smile stuck on his face as he walks away. 

“Victory is mine,” she yells at him, a dismissive hand waving over his shoulder. 

It makes her laugh. 

That’s been an unexpected trend for the day. 

The whole thing only lasts a few minutes, low voices and Emma’s eyes staring at the exact way Killian’s spine shifts when he stands up straighter, like he’s exacting some kind of control or power and it’s a little...attractive. 

She’s crazy. 

She can’t hear Mariah Carey anymore. 

And Emma’s just about to congratulate Killian on his success, but then there’s a flutter of noise moving across the waiting area. It takes her a second to realize what it is. Applause. 

Of the exceptionally sarcastic variety. 

The tips of Killian’s ears go red, ducking his gaze even as the applause grows, quick steps back towards Emma and their wall outlet. 

He tugs on the back of his hair when he sits down. 

“The hero of Terminal E,” she grins. 

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else, just tilts his head slightly, an unspoken invitation for his shoulder. 

Emma takes it. 

* * *

**7:23 p.m.**

“Swan. Swan? Emma, c’mon, you’ve got to get up.”

“Hmmmm.”

“God’s talking again.”

Her eyes flutter open, not sure when they actually fluttered closed, but that’s a thought for a day without airports or Bloody Mary’s and people are starting to move around them. The voice in the loudspeaker is making another announcement and she can dimly make out the words _boarding_ repeated several times.

“Oh, shit, can we get on a plane?”

Killian nods, holding his hand out. Emma takes it without a second thought, letting him tug her up and account for all her possessions. 

And for a second she’s excited. 

She’ll be able to get to New York at an almost normal time and Leo will be asleep, but that’ll make it easier to hide his presents in Mary Margaret and David’s apartment and there'll probably be food there and—

It all comes crashing down rather quickly. 

Because she realizes, rather quickly, that getting on the plane means _this_ is over and _this_ can’t possibly be a real thing, but she’s enjoyed it and maybe wants it to be something, and that is wholly out of character. 

“You have your boarding pass?”

“I have been on a plane before,” Emma says, one of Killian’s eyebrows quirking. “Do you?”

“Planes and I are frequent companions.”

“That’s the weirdest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

There’s another message—something about groups one through three and overhead compartments and Emma’s throat is suddenly dry for a reason that doesn’t have anything to do with the recirculated air. 

“Where are you sitting?” she asks. 

“Row 3. Seat, uh,” Killian tugs his boarding pass out of his back pocket, “C.”

“Aisle seat.”

“Yeah, bad luck.”

“We’ve circled around to depressing.”

He shakes his head, hair moving with the effort of it. “Nah, this has been—”

“—Fun?” Emma suggests.

“As much as I’ve ever had on a delayed flight.”

“High praise.”

“Honest,” he amends, and something in the back of her brain startles at that. At the sincerity in the word. And the hint of want just on the edge of it. 

Her heart threatens to burst out of her chest. 

Like the Grinch. 

That’s at least seasonally appropriate. 

God is talking, Killian’s quick hiss of an inhale making it all too obvious that his group is boarding and this is over and Emma shouldn’t regret it so much, but she also had fun and she really wants to kiss him. 

Hard. 

She doesn’t think the Grinch did that. 

That would have been weird. 

With the Who’s and everything. 

“Just, uh—” Killian says, “Don’t leave when you get off the plane, ok? I’ll, um—”

“I’ll see you in New York,” Emma finishes. 

He beams. “Ok, good.”

* * *

**7:27 p.m.**

**David Nolan:** Who’s the guy?  
****

**Emma Swan:** Tell your wife to stop gossiping.  
Also there is no guy.

 **David Nolan** : The first message refutes that. Also are you ever going to show up?

 **Emma Swan:** You are very impatient and possibly omniscient because I was just about to text you. We should be taking off in fifteen or so. 

**David Nolan:** There’s food here and just...a questionable amount of Reese’s peanut butter trees.

 **Emma Swan:** You’re the best. 

**David Nolan:** Tell the airport guy I said hi. 

* * *

**10:32 p.m.**

He’s standing just outside the gate when she gets off the plane, fingers tight around her bag. 

Emma is nervous. 

Which, really, is absurd for a guy she just met, but airports have different rules and different societal expectations and the guy she passed on her way out of the tunnel was wearing head to toe plaid. 

So. 

She figures she’s well within her rights. 

To want to kiss the ever living daylights out of Killian Jones. 

Or something less violet. 

“Hey,” he says, like they didn’t spend all together. 

Emma smiles. “Hey. You, uh—good flight?”

“You were on it.”

“Yeah, but that’s polite.”

“Right, right, and we’re not dicks, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Where are you heading?”

“Downtown.”

“Ah.”

She scrunches her nose. And sighs. With holiday-tinged disappointment. “You’re not?”

“No,” Killian shakes his head. “Hotel is uptown and roommate lives in Queens, so—”

“—So.”

They stand there. It feels like another eternity, a warped sense of time and emotions that threaten to fly out of Emma’s throat in the forms of words and some seriously sentimental bullshit, but despite everything, the alcohol and the admissions and the heroics of Terminal E, she’s still _her_ and she doesn’t say anything. 

She thrusts her right hand out. 

Like a goddamn idiot. 

“Thanks,” Emma says. “For, uh—everything today. It was—”

“—Fun?”

“What are you writing about when you’re here?”

“A New York spread. Post-holiday rush and how there’s still stuff to do in the city when you’re no clamoring up Fifth Avenue to look at window displays.”

“Really captured of the spirit of the thing, didn’t you?”

“Getting there,” Killian mutters, fingers finding Emma’s and there’s a softness to it that makes every inch of her clench. 

Seriously, an idiot.

“Well, uh—it was really nice to meet you Killian and I’ll….look for the story.”

One side of his mouth tugs up. A return to the sarcasm. “Thanks.”

She nods once, convincing herself as much as anyone else, and the breath she takes does nothing to help the overall state of her lungs.

“Bye Killian.”

“Bye Swan.”

* * *

**12:27 p.m.**

There are approximately seventeen Reese’s peanut butter tree wrappers sitting on David and Mary Margaret’s coffee table. 

Emma ate at least ten. 

Mary Margaret ate, like...five. 

David ate two. 

* * *

**Christmas Day, 6:42 p.m.**

“You should call him.”

“I didn’t get his number.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mary Margaret smiles, an understanding look Emma doesn’t appreciate, even with the scalding mug of hot chocolate in her hands. She’s perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, an explosion of wrapping paper and toys and half-covered plates everywhere, a mess of Christmas that is so nice she can’t think about it too long or she’ll definitely cry. 

She’s also a bit of a mess. 

And Leo loved all the presents she got him. 

David made fun of all the presents she got him. 

“What about the magazine?’ David asks, appearing in the kitchen like he’d teleported there. “Didn’t you look him up?”

Emma nods, far too aware of how creepy that was. “Yeah, and he works at Conde Nast. Travels all the time, but it’s not like they’re publishing contact information—”

“—There wasn’t an email?”

“That’s crossing a line, don’t you think?”

“You're the one pining.”

“No one is pining,” Emma argues. Mary Margaret scoffs. “At least not really. It’s just—he was nice. And it was...nice.”

“So, it was nice, huh?”

“Seriously, you’re no help at all.”

David chuckles, a Leo-sized blur streaking into the kitchen with an empty roll of wrapping paper clutched in his hand. And Emma had been right about the O’Hare story. A Killian Jones byline and more information than she knew was available, all streamlined into something she genuinely read more than once. 

He was a good writer. 

She was pining. 

“Aunt Emma, Aunt Emma, Aunt Emma,” Leo shouts. “Will you play lightsabers with me?”

Her eyes widen when he brandishes the roll like it’s an actual weapon, threatening to slam into several adult legs. “Didn’t we get you real presents?”

“Yeah, but—”

“—Of course I’ll play lightsabers with you.”

“Em,” David chides, but she waves him off.

“We won’t break anything, Dad. I promise.”

They knock over a mug of hot chocolate, but Emma figures that’s a worthy casualty when defending the Empire. 

* * *

**Christmas Day, 9:36 p.m.**

Leo falls asleep with his head on Emma’s lap. 

She falls asleep a few hours later. 

And wakes up to realize that David has covered both of them in blankets. 

* * *

**December 29th, 10:45 a.m.**

Mary Margaret cries when Emma gets in the Uber. 

David hugs her very tightly. 

Leo asks when they’ll play lightsabers next. 

And it’s both good and God awful, all at the same time, a weird mix that feels oddly appropriate on the way back to JFK and Emma can’t quite come to terms with the empty feeling in her gut, even as she lifts her arms above her head in whatever the technical term for that full-body machine scan thing is. 

Maybe it’s that. 

It’s probably not that. 

That seems very wordy. 

Her flight is still on time when she glances at the board, stuffing headphones in her ears and buying a very large, incredibly bitter coffee. 

And she’s just about to start scrolling Twitter, eyeing an empty seat a few feet away, when her gaze darts a different direction. She has no idea why, maybe instinct, maybe the generic power of airports, maybe...Christmas.

Even four days later. 

Because she can see the exact curve of his shoulders, a hand tugging on the hair at the back of his head and he’s obviously imploring the gate clerk about something. That board says delayed. 

It’s going to Minnesota. 

“Shit,” Emma breathes. It is not the most dignified thing she could say. Nor is the running, but both things are happening before she can rationalize them entirely and Killian’s head snaps around so quickly she is positive there is, in fact, some sort of post-Christmas magic involved. 

His eyes go very wide. 

And his jaw drops slightly, a quiet _Swan_ that makes her breath catch and her heart beat abnormally quickly and she doesn’t so much run into him as she slams into his chest and—

Kissing him is far better than she expected it to be. 

She expected a lot.

But then Emma’s feet aren’t on the ground anymore, arms around her waist and her fingers in Killian’s hair, a soft groan against her mouth that threatens to alter her heartbeat permanently. She tilts her head, lets herself fall into the feeling in the moment, only breaking apart for quick, panted breaths before they’re finding each other again.  
  
Over and over. 

Emma tries to pull herself closer. 

Killian’s hand flattens against her back. It helps. So does her leg wrapping around the back of his calf, which isn’t entirely appropriate for a public space, but she’s pretty familiar with laws and as far as she knows they’re not breaking any.

Yet. 

Plus, it’s an airport. 

So. The rules are different. 

Emma gasps when Killian’s tongue finds hers, noses bumping and chins threatening to collide and neither one of those things are as awkward as they should be. Just like them. 

She’s cautiously optimistic about collective pronouns. 

The world wouldn’t let this happen otherwise. 

“Wait, wait—how are you—” Killian starts, but Emma is still pretty preoccupied with kissing and he doesn’t spend much time protesting. 

The gate clerk coughs eventually, but the voice on the loudspeaker is what causes them to break apart, matching color in their cheeks and slightly out of breath. 

Emma presses her lips together. 

Killian is very clearly staring at her mouth. 

“That was fun,” she mutters. 

He laughs. Loud and honest, head thrown back and hand still pressed against her spine like she’ll walk away again. 

“Yeah,” Killian agrees. “It was. Are you leaving now?”

“Not for like forty-five minutes.”

“I’d really like your number.”

“My brother tried to convince me to email your work.”

“Ah, I like him. You should have.”

“Felt a little stalkery.”

“You can stalk me if you want.”

“What a line,” Emma grins, Killian nosing at her cheek. The gate clerk is still trying to get him on a different flight. “C’mon, I bet we can find an outlet somewhere.”

* * *

**December 23, next year. 11:30 a.m.**

“You’re going to be fine,” Emma promises. It’s not the first time she’s told him that, but Killian is still a little nervous and she’s impossibly endeared. 

Still. 

He keeps fidgeting. 

She’s on her second Bloody Mary. 

Because they’re going to New York. Together. After months of texting and weeks of FaceTime phone calls, redirected flights and frequent flier miles and Emma asked him to move in. He can write from anywhere, after all. So now they’re traveling for the holidays. As a collective pronoun with presents they both spent time picking out and Killian’s only a little disgruntled that Leo likes Star Wars more than Star Trek, but Emma figures if that’s their biggest obstacle in the Tampa International Airport, then they’re already ahead. 

Of, like, the world. 

And Terminal E. 

“Say it one more time.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Emma says. “Mary Margaret likes you. David likes you. Leo will try and play games with us all night.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, it does. Here, I’ll buy you another drink and then we’ll watch—”

“—Rudolph?”

“Deal.”


	4. Carol of the [Wedding] Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from anon: "we accidentally got married in vegas oops"
> 
> The whole list of prompts can be found [here](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/189418896544/101-fluffy-prompts). Tell me your favorite Christmas carol on [Tumblr](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com). These keep getting longer guys, I don't know.

His head is going to snap in half. 

He kind of hopes it does. It will presumably be more comfortable than whatever is happening behind his right eye, a dull throb and pounding that times up far too closely with his pulse, making Killian’s stomach heave and his mouth is very dry.

He’s not entirely sure where he is. 

It’s not very warm. 

That is...surprising. 

The whole schtick of this place is its warmth. A dry heat and whatnot. He swallows, feeling like his mouth is full of cotton balls with a tongue that is questionably large, blinking against the light streaming in through unfamiliar curtains and—

Bouncing off the band of metal sitting on his finger. 

Maybe his head has already cracked.  
  
Maybe he’s cracked. 

In a psychological sense. 

Killian blinks. Once, twice, three times, but the metal doesn’t move and the pain behind his eye appears to be drifting down his spine and he’s so goddamn cold because the other person draped across the majority of the bed has stolen nearly all the blankets. 

There’s a bit of fabric clinging to his left heel. 

“Holy fu—” he breathes, the rest of the word getting caught in a throat that suddenly feels as if it’s collapsing in on himself.  
  
He can hear his heart pounding against his rib cage, another noise his head does not appreciate and his eyes are starting to water. 

He’d blinked enough already. He assumes he’s physically incapable now. 

Because now things are starting to piece together, even through the fog and the metaphorical cotton balls, smiles and laughter and far too much alcohol, missed flights and East coast snowstorms, changed plans and new plans and—

Emma mumbles something in her sleep. 

So, maybe he’ll just die here. 

That would probably be easier to deal with. 

“Swan,” Killian says, but his voice doesn’t even sound like him. It scratches its way out of his throat, rough and maybe still a little drunk and...married. 

To Emma Swan.  
  
Presumably. 

God, he really can’t remember. 

That is...disappointing. 

“Swan,” he repeats, and it takes more than a moment to flip over, another twist of his stomach and clench of his jaw, and Emma makes more noise. Less disappointing. Endearing, even. This is a problem. A bad problem. The worst problem. “Swan, c’mon, love—” 

Killian reaches his hand out, lets the pads of his fingers drift over the curve of her elbow, even when it’s still covered by blankets with an astoundingly high thread count. He’s going to choke on his tongue. 

It’s growing. 

He’s positive. 

Taking up far too much real estate in his mouth, a biological defense mechanism because _love_ has always seemed to roll right off that same tongue when Emma Swan is involved, but now it sounds far too big and much too heavy, and Killian cannot think about both his tongue and Emma Swan in the same sentence. 

Not when he’s—  
  
“Why are you talking to me?” Emma grumbles. He laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but that’s apparently par for the course of the last twelve hours and at some point he’s going to promise that this is all Will’s fault. 

And global warming. 

If it hadn’t been snowing in New York and Boston, then everyone else would have been able to get to Las Vegas. For Christmas. As planned. 

Mary Margaret’s plan, really. There was a schedule and _we’ve never done this before_ and that had been reason enough for everyone to buy plane tickets and book hotels and Emma had called Killian almost immediately to ask _do you think we can bribe a hotel clerk to put us in rooms next to each other_. Which had almost led to his heart bruising his ribs. 

What with all the faster-than-normal beating and being in love with Emma Swan and whatever. 

_Whatever_. 

Emma Swan. His wife. 

Holy fuck. 

“Seriously your voice is so loud,” Emma continues. “Are they doing construction outside or something? It’s too early for that.”  
  
“I have no idea what time it is, actually.”

“It’s probably not construction, is it?”  
  
“No, I don’t think so.”

“But...you’re here. Yeah?” Killian hums, pointedly ignoring the flicker of hope that appears in the back of his brain at those particular words in that particular order. As if she’d want that. 

As if she’d want—  
  
They’re friends. 

They’re...best friends. He knows things about her. She knows things about him. Good things, not so good things, things they’ve shared together, quiet moments and easy smiles, the growing sense that it’s just a bit easier to breathe around Emma Swan than any other human being on the planet. 

They text. They FaceTime. On a schedule. One that Killian would argue is far better than Mary Margaret’s _Christmas in Vegas_ extravaganza. He and Emma have known each other forever, have settled into their roles in the friendship group; the tag-alongs. The extra pairs, third wheels and sad ones with no designated _other_ and this is really Will’s fault. He was supposed to get to Vegas before Mary Margaret and David. 

“Here, Swan,” Killian whispers when he realizes Emma is still waiting on an answer. 

He needs to find his phone. 

He needs to Google things. 

“Ok, good. That’s good, just—go back to sleep, ok?”

Her lips barely move when she speaks, burrowing further into the cocoon of blankets she’s created for herself, hair a riotous mess on multiple pillows and the smudges of black in the corners of her eyes make it obvious that neither one of them did much more than collapse into bed the night before. 

They’re still wearing clothes. 

So, that’s something. 

Killian licks his lips. He’s not sure when he started breathing out of his mouth, but he’s suddenly all too aware of it, like every inhale is a particular challenge and he briefly wonders if she can feel whatever it is he’s feeling because the pinch that appears between her brows is rather sudden. 

“Swan, Emma, it’s a—”  
  
Her eyes fly open, a blazing gaze that Killian swears cuts him right down the middle and stitches him back together. All at the same time. 

“Wait,” she snaps. “You’re here.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“In my room. This hotel room.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“And a bed.”  
  
“Also true.”  
  
“What are you—”  
  
“—I, uh,” Killian cuts in, and that’s probably not the best course of action. He bites back the urge to make another golf-related pun. To himself. Emma hasn’t blinked yet. “What do you remember about last night?”  
  
She shrugs, lower lip jutted out slightly. He’s got to stop staring at her lips. “I don’t—we were...did we come up with a song to go with the slot machine?”  
  
“Yuh huh.”

“Seriously, what is your deal right now? That’s—I mean, we were drunk, but—” Emma stops so abruptly Killian is fairly certain the world has also stopped spinning for a second. Until her hand jerks forward, as if she’s going to swat at his shoulder like it’s any other morning and any other day and he bites down on the side of his tongue.  
  
It’s bleeding. 

The whole thing is oddly poetic in an entirely depressing sort of way. 

Because Emma’s eyes bugs. Her jaw drops. Her exhale is impossibly loud. 

“What is that?” Emma exclaims, jumping up and taking the blankets with her. She sways when she gets to her feet, gritting her teeth, and Killian reaches out on something like instinct. 

She hisses. 

The light glints off his ring again, casting weird shadows across Emma’s face and the dress she’s wearing and she’s still wearing a dress.  
  
It’s not white.  
  
It’s red and good and great and Killian feels some of the tension that had lingered between his shoulders dissipate as soon as his eyes sweep across her. 

This is bad. 

And not—

No, bad. Horrible, terrible, an absolute mistake. 

Emma runs a hand over her face, fingers moving to pinch the bridge of her nose as she tries to catch her breath. Killian can still taste blood in his mouth. “Ok,” she says, all forced calm, “so, uh—we made up the jingle, song thing and then—”  
  
“—Jingle implies that it was an advertisement for the slot machines, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Oh my God, you’re making jokes.”  
  
Killian nods. “Yeah, a few.”  
  
“They’re not funny.”  
  
“Has that ever been the case, though?”  
  
One side of her mouth tilts up. “I hate you.”  
  
“That seems reasonable, all things considered.”

Emma huffs, tugging on the end of her hair like she does when she’s nervous and Killian doesn’t want her to be nervous around him, but he also didn’t expect to wake up married to the best friend he’s spent years pining for, so. Maybe nothing makes sense anymore. 

“This is real?”  
  
Of all the questions Emma could have asked, standing barefoot in her own hotel room, with, Killian assumes, her own fairly awful hangover, that is not the one he expected to hear. 

He expected more shouting. 

If he’s being honest. 

He nods again, slower that time. “Yeah, I think so.”  
  
“Ok, so, uh—” She clicks her teeth, more than once, as if she’s trying to work out some sort of residual energy and that dress is incredibly distracting. Being in love with her is incredibly distracting. “Did we win money last night?”  
  
“Quite a bit, if memory serves.”  
  
“And does it? Serve?”  
  
“Comes and goes in waves,” Killian admits, propping himself up on his elbows. Emma’s mouth does something else. “Scarlet called, do you remember that part?”  
  
“To tell us that he was stuck at JFK with Ruby and Belle?”  
  
“Yeah. And David and Mary Margaret couldn’t get out of Storybrooke—”  
  
“—Well, that’s because the entire town probably has like two pounds of road salt available, so—”  
  
“—Four pounds, maybe.”  
  
“The jokes,” Emma groans, but there’s not really any frustration to the words and that’s always been the case. The problem, maybe.  
  
It’s all too easy. 

With her. 

And them. 

As a unit. 

Killian’s eyes flicker to his ring. “Anyway. Scarlett called, gave a progress report on the great Nor’easter of 2019, Mary Margaret might have shed a few tears over her schedule and—”  
  
“—Wait until she finds out what we did,” Emma mutters. 

The tension returns. Tenfold. It sinks under Killian’s skin and wraps around every one of his bones, slinks through his veins and settles between muscle fibers, threatening to push him into the mattress. 

A muscle in Emma’s jaw jumps. ‘I just—” she starts, both hands waving in front of her. “Well, it’s not exactly like getting—” 

That muscle is going to fly out of her face. That wasn’t on Mary Margaret’s schedule either. Emma flushes when she can’t finish the sentence, tugging both of her lips behind her teeth. Killian tries not to lift his eyebrows. 

It doesn’t work. 

He knows as soon as Emma sighs. 

“So,” she continues pointedly, “we got the phone call, decided to—”  
  
“—Take in the sights of the strip. That’s a verbatim quote by you.”  
  
“God, did we start drinking here?”  
  
Killian points a finger towards the mini-bar, door still half-open and most of the shelves empty. “Context clues.”  
  
“And that led to the casino and the slots and then we won, so…”  
  
“I believe the term celebration was used several times.”  
  
Emma hums noncommittally, color still dotting her cheeks even when she does her best to bore her eyes into the tiny bit of carpet between her feet. And Killian holds his breath. 

He counts to ten. Twenty. Forty-seven. 

Backwards, too. 

Because the memories keep settling into place, quick flashes of moments and earnest conversation, roaming hands and smiles that would put even the most rhinestone-covered outfit to shame. 

Her hand had been very warm in his all night. 

And there’d been—

He wishes he didn’t know how soft Emma’s lips were when he kissed her. 

At least not like that. 

“Right, right,” Emma mumbles. “And, uh—Chapel of the Bells?”  
  
“There was a Christmas joke involved there.”  
  
“Oh my God, by you or me?”  
  
“I honestly can’t remember.”  
  
Emma makes a noise previously never heard by human ears. It leaves her whole body bent in half and Killian’s heart shattering in his chest, far too much emotion for a drunken-fueled elopement, but he’s still having a very hard time coming to terms with the dress and the way she keeps twisting strands of hair around her finger and—

He’s already spent too much time thinking about this. 

It seems exceptionally unfair that it ended up like this. 

“How did we get a license? Don’t you have to have a license in Vegas or is that just for responsible cities with real rules?”  
  
“It’s a pretty scathing review of Las Vegas,” Killian says with half a grin.  
  
“We looked up that place, didn’t we? The Bell place.”  
  
“Oh call it the Bell place from now on, please.”  
  
She glares. “The jokes have got to stop. This is—ok, so the Bell place had packages. That’s...I remember that. We went in and we signed things and I had flowers. Like...roses, did you pick those out?”  
  
He’s the one blushing now, a heat in his cheeks and lingering at the base of his spine. Whatever inhale Killian takes does not do much to assuage the tightening in his lungs. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I wanted you to have something nice.”

It’s not an admission, per se. 

It’s a fact, really. 

But Emma’s eyes flicker up and he would swear in front of a variety of judges that there’s a hint of emotion on the edge, her own brand of want that he’s coveted for far longer than he’s willing to admit. 

“And now we’re….”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Killian repeats, not able to say the actual word. So, he’s really a giant coward is what he is.

“How do we not be that?”  
  
It’s for the best that his heart has already cracked because the rest of him feels like it’s falling off in rather large hunks and that’s a disgusting thought, but Killian can still taste blood in his mouth and Emma won’t meet his gaze anymore and—

HIs phone is ringing somewhere. 

“Do you need to get that?” Emma asks, soft enough that he can barely hear her. Killian blinks. Multiple times. Again. 

“No, that’s—”  
  
“—You should probably get your phone, Killian. It’s, um...I mean we need to figure this out, right?”  
  
He makes a noise, is only aware that he nods when the muscles in his neck ache with the movement. Emma squeezes her eyes closed. “Because,” she continues, “it’s just a drunken thing. Yeah? That’s—I bet it happens to people all the time. This is like Vegas’ slogan.”  
  
“Drunk things brought about by delayed flights and the Christmas spirit?”

Emma’s lips twitch. “That’s verbatim too, huh?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
HIs phone stops ringing. And immediately starts again. 

“Get that,” Emma repeats. “I’m, uh—why did we come back here, though?”  
  
“You were very certain you had the best sheets in the entire hotel.”  
  
“They’re stupid soft, aren’t they?”  
  
“I wouldn’t know, you stole all of them in the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry.”  
  
And he can hear the apology for what it is, far more than bedding or questionably cold internal body temperature. For everything. 

A mistake neither one of them wanted to make for entirely different reasons. 

Killian stands up slowly, careful when he steps into Emma’s space and he’s at least eighty-two percent positive the sun is doing this reflecting thing on purpose. He ignores it, lets his head drop half an inch until his forehead is nearly resting on hers and his heart has made a miraculous recovery, hammering away in his chest like it’s trying to prove a point and—

She turns her head when his fingers graze her cheek, eyes fluttering shut. 

“We’ll fix it, Swan,” Killian promises, the words like acid on his tongue. He’s really being the most dramatic groom. 

She hums, a quick nod and hint of a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

And, really, it’s stupid. 

It’s idiotic and dumb and _wrong_ , on some sort of fundamental level, but Killian’s moving before he’s even processed any of those words and Emma doesn’t do anything more than exhale softly as son as his lips brush over the crown of her head. 

So, points. 

Or whatever. 

His phone vibrates off the table a few feet away. 

* * *

By the time Killian reaches his phone Ariel has called fourteen times, which seems a little—  
  
“Excessive,” he says, but that only gets him a screech-like sound and he’s not sure how much more of this his body can take. 

As a whole. 

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Say words.”  
  
“These are words,” Ariel sneers. She’s pacing. He can hear the floor creaking in what he can only imagine is her living room or bedroom and the specifics don’t really matter because she’s far too preoccupied with yelling at him to be concerned with the structural integrity of her house. “These are very—”

“—Opinionated words?” Killian suggests. 

“You told me.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Oh not so high and mighty now, are we?”  
  
“Ariel, I really do not have time for this. I’ve got to look shit up and—”  
  
“—You know it’s Christmas Eve, right? You probably won’t be able to talk to a lawyer today. Or tomorrow for that matter.”

His legs lock, glancing down to make sure his stomach has not actually fallen on the floor. No such luck. That would have been a good excuse for getting off the phone.

“Got you there, don’t I?”  
  
“Are you playing games, right now?”  
  
“No,” Ariel says, but the way her laugh clings to her voice makes Killian wonder all sorts of things he shouldn’t. If only because they make his blood run a bit cold. Or, colder. He still hasn’t really recovered from the blanket theft. 

“Are you?” she adds. 

Killian’s going to bite his tongue in half by the end of the day. 

Maybe the end of the morning. 

“Did I call you last night?” he asks softly, ducking further into the corner like that will stop his voice from traveling across the room. 

Emma’s on the phone too. 

“Several times,” Ariel replies, not bothering to disguise her laugh anymore. “Each one got progressively more excited. It was honestly almost nice.”  
  
“Almost?”  
  
“Almost. Because, uh—did you really actually do it?”  
  
He’s frozen. Stuck. Stock-still in the corner with the shadow and his own regret and he’s already lost track of the number of times he’s looked at his ring. 

Killian’s got to stop thinking of it like that. 

It’s far too possessive. 

“Your silence is deafening,” Ariel murmurs. 

“Shut up.”  
  
“The honeymoon’s over, huh?” 

“Seriously, shut up.” 

“Killian,” Ariel says, voice going placating. He narrows his eyes at open air. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” 

“Don’t you have better things to do?” 

“Right now? No.” 

“You might want to reexamine your priorities.” 

“Oh, don’t be a dick. I’m worried about you.”

“Me? Why?”

The breadth of Ariels’ reactionary noises would be impressive in any other situation. As it is, they’re mostly just annoying and Killian needs to take a shower. And down a fistful of Ibuprofen. 

“You’re really kidding me, aren’t you?” Ariel challenges. “Oh my God, that’s—how long would you say you’ve been madly in love with your best friend?”

Silence. It’s not his first choice, but his tongue is doing that thing again and Emma’s voice is getting sharper on the other side of the room. 

Ariel hums. “It’s so obvious. Even before the elopement. I mean—I was not joking about the messages. You should probably make sure you didn’t take out ad space in whatever the major Las Vegas newspaper is.”

“ _The Las Vegas Review Journal_.”  
  
“God, you’re such a dweeb.”  
  
“Was this the worry?” 

“You love that girl,” Ariel says matter of factly. “And you have forever. And it’s—she is so ridiculously into you—”  
  
“—What?” Killian growls, hand going tight enough around his phone that he’s worried he’s going to snap it in half. That might not be the worst thing in the world.

“People do not just marry their best friends.”  
  
“There was a lot of alcohol involved.”  
  
“What’s that saying about drunk thoughts and actions?”  
  
His eyes flicker towards Emma, swallowing back his retort because he wants, wants, _wants_ , with every single fiber of his being and every reason why he hasn’t taken his ring off yet and—

“Silence,” Ariel mutters. “You should tell her at some point that you’d like to date her while you’re married.”  
  
“We’re not staying married.”  
  
“That’s stupid.”  
  
“That’s practical.”  
  
“When is romance practical?”  
  
“Ariel.”  
  
“Killian,” she says, and he rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. It hurts. “You really did sound happy last night.”  
  
“You’re getting sentimental on me.”  
  
“You’re a martyr, you know that?”  
  
“Nah,” he objects. “It’s just—”  
  
“—Oh say, it’s complicated, please.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
Ariel clicks her tongue. “Sure it is. Seriously, you may want to double check on the newspaper ads. And other voicemails. From both of your phones.”  
  
He’s going to say something. It will be scathing and it will get the smile he’s sure is taking up most of the space on Ariel’s face to disappear, but then Emma is walking towards him, nerves practically rolling off her in waves.  
  
“I, uh—I called Mary Margaret last night.”  
  
“Told you,” Ariel yells. Killian snarls into the phone. She cackles. 

Emma scrunches her nose. “So, she’s called me like forty-seven times. They’re still trying to get to Logan and apparently Scarlet did get on a flight. Ruby yelled and Belle pleaded and it was a whole thing, so they’re on their way here and—”  
  
“—They’re probably bringing gifts,” Ariel shouts. 

“Is that Ariel?”  
  
Killian hums. “She’s very bored on Christmas break. Mind gone soft and so now she’s just determined to do permanent damage to my hearing and—”  
  
“—You are a dick,” Ariel says, making sure to pause between each word. For emphasis.

“Did you call Ariel?” Emma asks. 

“Something about good news and it traveling fast.”  
  
She lets out a strangled sound between gritted teeth, nose still scrunched and far more attractive than any nose has any right to be. “Keep that in mind because Mary Margaret in all her overprotective wonder passed our tidings of great joy—”  
  
“—Look who’s making jokes now.”  
  
“She told Regina.”

Killian curses. 

“Who was,” Emma continues, “as judgmental as you’d expect her to be, but also full of legal advice and promises that an annulment isn’t just possible, but is exactly what we should be doing and—are you ok?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“You’re doing that thing with your face.”  
  
“I have no face thing.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Didn’t we do this before?”  
  
“Oh my God, how we were you not already married?” Ariel cries. Killian hangs up on her, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. It buzzes immediately. 

“Where’s the inevitable but in this string of instructions?” Killian asks. 

Emma smiles. Honest. Real. A little nervous, still, but something almost close to the expression Killian has started to consider his and that’s insane. He’s insane. 

God, they’re married. 

_They are married_. 

He’s not sure he doesn’t want to be. 

“Mind reader.”  
  
“Regina wouldn’t be able to make it easy.”  
  
“I’m not sure if it’s her or national holidays and our timing,” Emma shrugs. “But, uh—well, she said that we talk to lawyer, figure out the right reason for the annulment and then it shouldn’t take more than two weeks. We just—need it to not be Christmas.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“Meaning our friends are on their way and we won’t be able to do much about this,” she nods towards his hand, hanging limply at his side, “until December twenty-sixth.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“The face.”  
  
“No face, love,” Killian says, another slip of the tongue and he’s got to stop. That seems harder than not being in love with her.

Emma quirks an eyebrow. “Mary Margaret said they should be here tonight. But that leaves us—”  
  
“—A schedule for today?”  
  
“The Nutcracker.”  
  
“A ballet?” Emma nods. “And she thought Scarlet would agree to go to that?”  
  
“I don’t think he did. There are only four tickets and she’s already sold hers and David’s, so it’s just—”  
  
“—Us.”  
  
“Us,” Emma repeats. 

Killian takes a deep breath, forcing a smile. It doesn’t do much to convince Emma, he knows, but his phone is making noise and his heart is doing its best hummingbird impression. 

She hasn’t taken her ring off. 

He dimly remembers picking out rings. 

With her. 

_They are married_. 

“So,” Emma says, “if you want to get ready, then—maybe we could get some breakfast or something?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Sounds like you’re double checking that I want to.”  
  
“I mean—”  
  
“—We’ll fix it,” she cuts in. “But there’s nothing we can really do now and if I don’t shower soon, I may go insane.  
  
Killian barks out a laugh. “That’s fair. I’ll meet you—”  
  
“—Back here?”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
“Ok.”

* * *

_Approximately 12:30 a.m. Christmas Eve_

“That one.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Is this you double checking?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder and there’s something about that exact shade of green in her eyes that has Killian leaning forward, catching her lips with his.  
  
They’re definitely in the double-digits, kiss-wise now. He’s not all that inclined to stop, a rush that moves through both of his arms and settles in the base of his heels every single time it happens, like it’s grounding him and sending him into orbit at exactly the same time. 

It’s better than he thought it would be. 

The way her head tilts and that soft sound she makes, like she’s breathing out any sense of worry or fear, just trying to inhale him instead, light scratches of her nails when her fingers find their way into his hair. 

That keeps happening. 

He curls an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. 

It leaves them impossibly close, like they’re trying to occupy the same few inches, or maybe just take up a bit more space in each other’s lives and Killian swears his head spins as soon as he feels her tongue brush his. 

And the words bubble. They threaten. They rise up the back of his throat, feelings and desire and some rational part of him knows he should say them before they do this, but this seems to be happening and it kind of feels like a roller coaster. 

Terrifying and exciting and he hopes he doesn’t lose his sunglasses when they flip upside down. 

It’s admittedly a slightly jumbled metaphor. 

But. 

Then Emma is kissing him and the chapel worker coughs and she might giggle. He hoards the sound away. For later. 

Forever. 

“That one,” Emma repeats, tapping on the glass case it’s not much more than a thin band of white gold, but it could be her band of white gold and—

“Perfect,” Killian says. 

* * *

**From:** [Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com  
](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com)**To:** [Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com  
](mailto:Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com)**Subject:** AHAHAHAHAHAHA

AHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA

IDIOT. 

**From:**[sherrif@storybrooke.gov  
](mailto:sherrif@storybrooke.gov)**To:** [Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com  
](mailto:Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com)**Subject:** [Empty]

If you mess this up, I may scream. God, you’re an idiot. Did you at least tell her you love her yet?

**From:** [Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com  
](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com)**To:** [Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com  
](mailto:Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com)**CC:** sherrif@storybrooke.gov

 **Subject:** AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

David says you didn’t tell her you love her yet?????

Seriously, do you have a brain cell????? Like. One????

  
  


**From:**[sherrif@storybrooke.gov  
](mailto:sherrif@storybrooke.gov)**To:** [Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com](mailto:Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com) [Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com  
](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com)**Subject:** Re: AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

Braincell is one word, isn’t it?

**From:** [Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com)[  
](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com)**To:** [Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com](mailto:Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com) [sherrif@storybrooke.gov  
](mailto:sherrif@storybrooke.gov)**Subject:** Re: AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

Are you….are you kidding me?

  
  


**From:**[Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com  
](mailto:Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com)**To:** [Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com) [sherrif@storybrooke.gov](mailto:sherrif@storybrooke.gov)  
**Subject:** Re: AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

Did you both pay for in-flight wifi to do this?

  
  


**From:** [ Will@yahoo.com](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com)  
**To:** [sherrif@storybrooke.gov](mailto:sherrif@storybrooke.gov)  
**Subject:** The Idiot

I don’t think he told her he loved her. 

**From:** [ sherrif@storybrooke.gov ](mailto:sherrif@storybrooke.gov)   
**To:** [ Will@yahoo.com ](mailto:Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com)  
**Subject:** Re: The Idiot

Idiot. 

* * *

He keeps glancing at her. 

It’s not all that covert, despite Killian’s best efforts. And, really, he refuses to admit that it’s even remotely his fault, because Emma keeps making quiet sounds that catch his attention, eyes wide whenever a ballerina does something particularly impressive and he’s not sure she’s blinked the entire second act. 

He’s cataloguing her reactions. 

In a way that isn’t nearly as creepy as it sounds. 

In...drunkenly married his best friend on Christmas Eve and can’t unmarry his best friend because of legal bullshit and might be falling a bit more in love with that same best friend while she watches The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. 

He thinks that’s what this is. 

Like ninety-six percent positive. 

“You’re missing everything,” Emma mumbles out one side of her mouth. 

“No, I’m not.”  
  
“If you stare at me any harder, you’re going to drill a hole into the side of my head.”  
  
“You’d look weird then.”  
  
She muffles her laugh with her hand, sliding further into her seat, but then her eyebrows are flying up her forehead and he can still hear the exact way she gasps when even more dancers appear on stage, a sea of color and swelling music and—

Killian grabs her hand. 

Instinct. More than instinct. Head over heels in love with her. 

Any of those excuses work, really.

And Emma doesn’t pull her hand away, doesn’t flinch or do anything except lace her fingers around Killian’s, thumb brushing the back of his palm. 

Her eyes don’t leave the stage. 

Her hand doesn’t leave his. 

He genuinely doesn’t remember how Clara got back to her house. 

Magic, he assumes. Something about Christmas and—

“Mary Margaret is going to be so disappointed she didn’t see that,” Emma breathes as soon as the curtain falls, head snapping towards Killian. Her eyes are bright again, an excitement there that doesn’t match up with the nerves of the last few hours, but he assumes it might just be more magic, or some kind of something that is inherently them and the power of friendship. 

Or, whatever. 

He kind of hates that last part.  
  
“That was,” Emma says, “Just—God, that was so...pretty.”  
  
He grins. 

“Oh, don’t make fun.”  
  
“I’m not,” Killian objects. “It was very pretty.”  
  
She clicks her tongue, thinks he’s teasing her, but it might be the most honest thing he’s said all day. Idiot, Idiot. Idiot. “You didn’t even watch any of it. You laughed at the Rat King.”  
  
“Well, that was kind of funny.”  
  
“They were threatening!”  
  
“I’m sure if I got shrunk down to the size of a toy, I would also think a rat wearing a crown was a threat. And Uncle Drosselmeyer was—”  
  
“—Let’s not talk about Uncle Drosselmeyer.”  
  
“Because he’s a giant creep?”  
  
Emma mutters something that sounds like _bah humbug_ under her breath, standing up to starting moving towards an exit. Her thumb taps against Killian’s. “You’re mixing references, love.”  
  
She squeezes his hand. 

He thinks. He doesn’t want to imagine that. 

But he’s also getting very greedy and he hadn’t taken his ring off and she’s wearing a different dress. Blue this time. 

He might give Uncle Drosselmeyer a run for his creep-type money. There’s a joke about slot machines in there, Killian is sure. 

“So,” Emma says when they reach the lobby, “what do we do now?”  
  
“What else was on Mary Margaret’s schedule?”  
  
“I don’t know actually, um—probably dinner, but they all land around seven anyway and—”  
  
“—You don’t want to eat without them?”  
  
“That’s not a secret me avoiding you thing.”  
  
“No?” Killian asks, and he hopes she doesn’t hear the added emotion behind both letters. That would be embarrassing. 

More than everything else. 

He probably shouldn’t have spent an entire ballet matinee staring at her. 

“No,” Emma echoes. She tugs on the front of his jacket, like will make the words ring truer. He’s admittedly staring at her still, though. So. 

“You want to play slots again?”

Killian presses his tongue to the inside of his mouth, a flutter of nerves in the pit of his stomach. “A dangerous game, don’t you think?”  
  
“We were good at it.”  
  
“I don’t know if you can be good at slots, Swan. That’s just—luck and spin ratio and—”  
  
“—Oh my God, say spin ratio again please.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“I know, so am I.”

He considers that for a moment—lets the sound of her voice settle in the darker corners of his brain, the places only Emma is really aware of, lost moments and could-have-been and Killian is breathing out of his mouth again, but for as fucked up as this whole thing is and will be for the next forty-eight hours, existing in the same space as her has been as easy as ever. 

Maybe better. 

With white-gold shine added in. 

“We’re going to have to get more coins.”  
  
“We’re capable of doing that.”  
  
“You don’t want to try blackjack or something?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “Nah, the house is always going to wind up screwing you at all those table games and I don’t know how to count cards.”  
  
“Is that a requirement?”  
  
“Hollywood would suggest it is.” Killian chuckles, the desire to kiss her senseless rushing up his spine. As if that’s not his constant state of being. “Plus,” Emma adds, rocking forward until her head bumps his collarbone, “the slots are more fun with their lights and showmanship and it’s not quite so—”  
  
“—So what?”  
  
“Serious?”  
  
She asks it like she’s not sure she actually wanted to say the word and Killian’s answering inhale is far too sharp, his nod far too brusque. “Right,” he says, and he’d let the analogy go on for too long anyway. “You want to walk to a casino, or—”  
  
“—Yeah, that’s fine.”  
  
“Cool. Let’s go.”

* * *

_Approximately 10 p.m., December 23rd_

The lights are very loud. 

Casinos by their very nature seem very loud. There are people and more people, roulette wheels and sound effects. Drink orders and music playing, shouting and cheering and booing, as if the cards give a fuck about human emotions and Killian’s feeling almost too existential with Emma plastered to his front, demanding _more coins_ for the slot machine they’ve claimed as they’re own. 

They win. 

They keep winning. 

It makes more noise. 

And then—

“I like you,” Emma announces, spinning on the spot and her arms are draped over his shoulders and—  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Is this you double checking?”  
  
“Something like that,” Killian mumbles. His vision swims, half convinced this is a dream he’s had more than once.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That was the answer, then?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“A little more loquacious, love.”

Emma lets out a shaky laugh, color rising in her cheeks and the side of her neck, shuddering slightly when Killian tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. And it all kind of—

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he whispers.  
  
“Do it, then.”

He does. 

* * *

They don’t win. 

It seems almost too heavy-handed, an unnecessary message from the universe that they can’t have nice things or simple things and this isn’t either one of those things, but Killian found himself hoping somewhere during the curtain call of the Nutcracker and he’s starting to wonder if they can get their money back from the Chapel of the Bells.  
  
He should make a list of everyone he has to call. 

They will all be monumentally depressing phone calls. 

And Emma keeps sighing, his jacket hanging heavy on her shoulders because it’s Las Vegas, but she’s constantly cold and he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment. She stuffs another coin into a machine that’s different than the one they played last night and the _signs have got to stop_. Killian is going to scream. 

“Ah, shit,” Emma hisses, kicking a frustrated leg out when the machine shows three different fruits. “That’s—it’s garbage.”  
  
“Scathing.”  
  
“I’m losing all your money.”  
  
“Eh, some of it is yours.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“Mmhm, you didn’t want to carry your wallet and I took some of your cash.” Killian shrugs when Emma gapes at him. “We don’t really have much left, honestly.”

“God, that is so sad.”  
  
“Scarlet owes us drinks.”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
“I told him sixteen times he should have gotten on an earlier flight, but—”  
  
“—He’s a stubborn ass?”  
  
“That, exactly.”  
  
Emma chuckles, a little more watery than Killian would like it to be, but he also assumes most casinos are used to crying. Just in general. He needs to stop giving the casino a personality. “He thought it’d be cheaper to fly closer to the holiday. And flying makes him nervous, so—”  
  
“—No way.”  
  
“Did you not know that?”  
  
“No. Although I bet Ruby mocked him mercilessly for that the entire flight.”  
  
“What would you bet?”  
  
She smiles, teeth finding her lower lip like she’s worried the action is too big. For them. And this moment. 

Of complete and utter awkwardness. 

Someone wants to use their machine. 

“Alright, alright, alright,” Killian growls, an arm around Emma’s waist when he pulls her away. The woman, her coin bucket jangling noisily when she plops onto the plastic seat, grimaces at them, but she doesn’t actually speak and—“Let’s play a different game, love,” he says. 

They don’t. 

Killian didn’t really expect them to, what with their decreasing funds and a ring on his hand that seems determined to pull him into the Earth and he’s got to say something. He needs to say everything, but saying anything is suddenly the biggest challenge in the world and it is so goddamn loud. 

Emma says something anyway. 

“I’m sorry.”  
  
Killian’s shoulders sag. “What? For...what do you have to be—”  
  
“—Is that a joke?”  
  
“I’m out of jokes, I think.”

“This isn’t normal.”  
  
“No, but—”  
  
“—There are no buts here? We got married!”  
  
“I was there, Swan.”  
  
“Where you? Really? Because we’re just acting like it’s nothing and—”  
  
“—What would you rather do?”

It’s another big question. Far too big. Epically big. God, he hopes he doesn’t have to talk to Ariel for a week. She’s going to be insufferable.  
  
“Do you honestly not remember how this went?” He can feel his eyebrows lower, confusion rattling down his spine. Emma looks close to distraught. “I just—this made sense. Last night and even before last night and—” She drags both her hands down her cheeks, leaving streaks in her wake and Killian is not breathing. “I asked you to kiss me, Killian! That was—it was all me and—”  
  
“—Stop that.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We’re going in circles, I think.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Are you under some impression that I don’t want to kiss you? Constantly?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Emma, love, you’ve got to say something else.”

Her whole body sags. She wins. “I don’t—” she stammers, fingers curling around the back of her neck and the chain there and something in the back of his brain startles at that, not used to seeing the metal or the light imprint it leaves on her skin. “You can’t double up on nicknames like that, it’s cheating.”  
  
“That’s just your name.”  
  
“Yeah, but you’ve got your own thing, don’t you?”  
  
“Is that you double checking?”  
  
“It might be,” she admits, and there wasn’t that much space between them, but she rocks forward anyway, the toe of her shoes brushing Killian’s. “I—I don’t really remember how we got to the chapel.”  
  
“Neither do I, honestly.”  
  
“So, no idea who asked who, then?”  
  
“Maybe some hope.”  
  
The words fall out of him. It feels that way, at least. Part admission, part want, _again_ , Emma’s eyes going wide enough to do damage and Killian doesn’t think. It’s too loud for that, anyway. 

He ducks his head, swallowing down his groan when Emma steps on his foot. It’s easy to do that when he’s kissing her instead. His hands find her waist, holding on like he’s battling some kind of romantic tide and he’s barely cognizant of Emma’s eyes fluttering shut before her fingers curl around the front of his shirt, tugging him forward. Killian tilts his head, lets himself fall into a rhythm, far easier than anything else he’s done and if he’s keeping with the water puns, it feels like cresting the surface of a particular strong wave. 

That he’d be all too content to drown in. 

Emma pushes up again, lets her fingers card through the hair at the back of his neck and he can’t stop moving his own hands, desperate to blaze some kind of path that he’ll think about for the rest of forever. 

The word bounces around his brain, leaves bruises and brands and another word that’s inherently more positive than that and—  
  
“Heyo, what are we doing here?”  
  
Killian is going to commit murder on the first floor of the Bellagio. 

Andy Garcia’s character from Ocean’s Eleven will be pissed off. 

And the whole lot of them are still holding their luggage, coats draped over arms and matching looks of surprise on their faces. Or so Killian assumes. He’s still staring at Emma, watching the dismay cloud her gaze. 

She swallows. 

“I’m going to get some air,” Emma announces, not bothering to hand Killian back his jacket. He doesn’t ask for it.

Mary Margaret mutters something undoubtedly encouraging, Ruby’s hand over mouth and Belle swatting at Will while he continues to laugh uproariously. David looks at Killian, stuck to the spot with his heart crumbling and his stomach on a different floor and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to—

Something hits him. 

Not literally. Metaphorically. 

Memory...y. 

“Did you tell her you love her?” David asks knowingly, and Killian doesn’t nod or shake his head, just kind of twists his neck because—  
  
“I’ll be right back.”  
  
He runs. 

* * *

_Approximately four in the morning, Christmas Eve_

They got married. 

Married. 

To each other. 

Killian’s whole body is thrumming, excitement mixing with everything he’s ever felt for Emma Swan and the questionable amount of alcohol either one of them has ingested. They haven’t taken their clothes off, which he’s sure he’ll be disappointed by eventually, but for now he’s content to lay there, staring up at the ceiling with his wife curled against his side, fingers tracing idle patterns over her arm.

He’s fairly certain she’s asleep. 

It’s really why he says what he does.  
  
“I love you, Emma.”  
  
She doesn’t still, so much as she takes a deep breath, Killian hoping and wanting and—“I love you too, Killian.”

* * *

She hasn’t made it very far. 

And he shouldn’t take much joy from that, but Killian’s desperate and greedy and he skids to a stop in front of a fountain that isn’t doing fountain things yet. He supposes it’s only a matter of time. 

It’s another clunky metaphor. 

“Hi,” Killian breathes, Emma’s lips curling up even when she tugs on the chain around her neck. He realizes what’s on it. 

Her ring. 

He’s glad he didn’t waste time killing Scarlett. It’d be hard to profess his love from jail. 

“If I apologize again are you going to freak out?”  
  
“Undoubtedly,” Killian nods.

“That’s dumb.”  
  
“Your apology? Yes.”

Emma huffs, the ring falling over the front of her dress and the side of his jacket zipper and that kind of messes with his head a little. “This is insane.”

“Unorthodox.”  
  
“They all saw us making out in the casino.”  
  
“I’d imagine a lot of people did,” Killian reasons, dropping in front of her. “The degenerates come out in droves on national holidays, you know.”

“What happened to being out of jokes?”  
  
“It’s a defense mechanism.”  
  
“From me?”

She whispers the question, trepidation and nerves and Killian hopes he doesn’t fall over when he lifts his hand. His balance is better sober, though. “I didn’t want to—”  
  
“—Marry me?”  
  
He’s not holding his breath, so whatever sound he makes is absurd, leaving his forehead resting on Emma’s and her fingers brushing over the side of his jaw, familiar and not and normal and unexpected and absolutely goddamn perfect. 

In an unorthodox sort of way. 

“Say that again.”  
  
“You first.”  
  
“God, you’re stubborn, you know that,” he mutters, and Emma smiles, a kiss between his eyebrows. “I—ok, you want to be honest? Let’s be honest. That’s how Christmas works, right?”  
  
“Something about naughty and nice and rats.”  
  
“No rats, Swan.”  
  
“Nutcracker princes?”  
  
“Look who’s making jokes now,” Killian grins. He noses at her cheek, like some dam of emotional upheaval has been broken and he can’t stop touching her if he tries. He doesn’t try. 

“You didn’t take it off.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your, uh—” Emma says, “your wedding ring. You haven’t—God, I keep looking at it. You’re sure it’s not a magnet?”  
  
“Not that I’m aware of, no.”  
  
“Weird.”  
  
“The weirdest.”  
  
“Why didn’t you take it off?”

Killian takes a deep breath, not as nervous as he probably should be because this is _the moment_ and he’s almost surprised they don’t have a larger audience. Mary Margaret might be hiding behind a bush. 

“I didn’t want to,” he says. Strictly speaking he wishes he said he more. He wishes there were some ridiculously romantic speech with adjectives and adverbs and every promise he’s ever made to himself when it comes to Emma, but that’s the important part and she’s kissing him. 

He can feel her smile against his mouth. 

And that’s enough. 

By a long shot. 

Gambling puns. 

Emma pulls him up when she stands, Killian’s palm flat on her back and her fingers tracing as much of him as she can, rocking back and forth until they find a rhythm that might just be them and—

They both yelp when the fountain goes off behind them. 

He nearly falls over her. She kicks him in the ankle. They laugh. Loudly. And he’d been right about Mary Margaret. 

They’re all there, another round of smiles and practically giddy laughter, hands in the air and shouts of triumph that sound suspiciously like winning the jackpot. 

Killian feels that way. 

“I didn’t want to,” he repeats, soft enough that only Emma can hear. “I just wanted—”  
  
“—Me?”  
  
“You, Swan. From the very start. For as long as I can remember. And it’s—you want to go on a date or something?”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“No jokes.”  
  
She leans back, eyes wide and as hopeful as he’s ever wanted them to be. About him. And them. Collectively. “I’d like to go on several dates. That end with less clothing. I was really upset about all the clothing last night.”  
  
“We can probably work on that.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian nods. “And I—well, we don’t have to stay this—”  
  
“—No, no, that’s...I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world.”  
  
“High praise.”  
  
“Something like that,” she agrees. “Just, you know...maybe we can date while we’re—”  
  
“—Married,” Killian finishes.

“That’s the first time you’ve said that.”  
  
“Why do you know that?”  
  
“As if you didn’t.”  
  
He kisses her again. He can’t help it. Scarlet whistles. And they do go to dinner eventually, but then Killian’s tugging Emma down a hallway, a mouth against her neck and her fingers working buttons and—

It’s even colder the next morning, a distinct lack of clothing and bedding, but there’s a body against his and a small smile on her face and he lets his eyes close again, hopeful for whatever else they may want together. 

* * *

_Approximately 5:15 p.m. April 17th_

He asks her. 

For real that time. 

It’s sooner than he plans on, but they’ve been married for months and Emma smiles when she kisses him. 

He figures that’s the response. 

  
  



	5. More Than You Could Ever Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from anon: "why wasn’t i invited to your wedding?"
> 
> What is the best Christmas cookie? Let's hang out and discuss on [Tumblr](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com).

“You’ll want to be careful, your face may freeze like that.”

“That’s not how human faces work at all.”

Emma clicks her tongue, not quite able to get enough frustration in the sound to be actually threatening and there’s far too much Christmas music playing anyway. She can’t be threatening at Christmas. It’s against the rules. 

Of, like, humans. 

Probably. 

“That is a very weird sentence,” she says instead, dropping onto the edge of the couch in Belle and Ruby’s apartment with a pair of drinks clutched in her hands. Killian doesn’t move. 

And that is...unexpected. 

He doesn’t move his head, doesn’t stop staring straight ahead like there’s something there only he can see, the tip of his tongue obvious where it juts against the inside of his cheek. Emma should not be thinking about Killian Jones’ tongue. 

Particularly in Belle and Ruby’s apartment. 

At Christmas. 

Or anytime, really. 

“Seriously,” Emma continues, “I’ve hardly even seen you tonight. How come you didn’t let me know when your train was coming in? I would have bought you lunch or something.”  
  
“Weren’t you at work?”

“Well, yeah—but I like you.”  
  
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I didn’t want to bother you. I know how to get around the city and it was a weird time, anyway.”  
  
“You’re really pulling at straws. Did you try some of the cookies yet?”

“I also know better than to do that. Belle tried to do something with gingerbread, but it does not look the right color.”  
  
“Isn’t gingerbread generally brown?”  
  
“Yup,” Killian says, popping his lip on the word and Emma nudges at his shoulder.

“Here—c’mon, take this, I can’t drink while I’m holding your stuff.”

That gets him to move his head. 

Figures. 

Except. It’s not so much a movement as it is a loll, neck rolling in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable and Emma is certain she hears something crack and she’s going to say something about, _she is_ , but then Killian’s fingers are brushing hers and he’s absolutely freezing cold and the music is getting louder, she swears and—

“You didn’t have to get me a drink,” he mutters. 

“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job of putting down some roots here, so I figured you weren’t going to get it yourself.”  
  
“Do you honestly not know how biology works, or…”

Emma sneers. “When’s the last time you stood up?”

“Roland was trying to steal some of the cookies Ruby hid on the top shelf of that one cabinet and I made sure he didn’t break anything in the process.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
“For real,” Killian echoes. “But that was a few hours ago and the sugar rush ended pretty quickly and now—” He leans around Emma, that stupid tongue thing still happening. “—He’s found better company, it seems.”

She glances over her shoulder, another sound that isn’t particularly human rising in the back of her throat. Roland Locksley is asleep. On top of Will Scarlet. And it’s painfully cute and, somehow, a little festive and Emma almost forgets that she’s barely talked to Killian since he walked into the apartment. 

That’s also unexpected.  
  
Because they’re—well, she’s not entirely sure if there is a word for what they are. He’s her brother’s best friend and a guy she’s known forever and half the people in that apartment are only there as branches of that friendship tree, and Emma desperately needs to learn basic biology. 

Of humans. 

And presumably trees. 

Because she and Killian are—it really doesn’t matter. She’s just happy he’s here, a week off from work for the holidays and Boston isn’t really that far from New York, but there’s something about this time of year that makes those miles seem like light years and she’s just…

She’s happy he’s here. 

That’s it. 

Honestly. 

Emma takes a drink. It makes her shiver. 

“Lightweight,” Killian mumbles over the top of his own glass, a glint in his gaze that hadn’t been there all night. 

“What’s your deal?”  
  
“You can’t hold your liquor.”  
  
“That’s because liquor is gross.”  
  
“Did Ruby not buy your fifteen-dollar wine?”  
  
“That sounds very judgmental.”  
  
He shakes his head, another drink, but Emma is admittedly a little distracted by the way his hair shifts when he moves. The music is definitely getting louder. And someone is singing along to Michael Bublé. 

She can’t believe Ruby is playing Michael Bublé. 

“No, no,” Killian says, “I appreciate that you’re such a cheap drinking partner. It’s definitely one of your better qualities.”  
  
“You’ve got to work on your compliments.”  
  
“Mmmhm.”  
  
They’ve both finished their drinks already. 

Unexpected, part three. 

Emma narrows her eyes when Killian's fall back to his empty cup, thumb tapping almost impatiently against the plastic. She feels a little lightheaded, a distinct buzz under her skin that’s partially because of the alcohol and partially because of just how close Killian is and that’s—

Fine. It’s fine. 

She’s—  
  
“You’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” Emma mutters. “Ruby definitely bought that rum you like. I know she did because I told her she had to, and I just poured it, so—what?”  
  
Killian jerks his head up so quickly something _else_ cracks, and that can’t possibly be healthy, but his eyes are wide enough to be disarming and Emma nearly swallows her tongue. 

She’s got to stop making these jokes. No one is laughing. 

“I’m a little disappointed, you know.”  
  
“In the rum? Was it a mixing thing with the Coke? You are so weird about that.”

“Why wasn’t I invited to your wedding?” Killian asks, and there’s just enough of an edge in his voice that Emma flinches. Even through her half-drunk state. 

She really can’t hold her liquor. 

Maybe she’ll just go buy fifteen-dollar wine. 

“Wait, what?” she stammers, confusion rattling down her spine and threatening to pull her onto the floor. Killian lifts his brows, eyes managing to get even wider and Emma doesn’t remember when she decided to stop breathing, but then her lungs are burning and her stomach is twisting and—

“How did you find out about that?”  
  
“Please,” Killian scoffs. “I got texts. That was the first thing Lucas told me as soon as I walked in. Elsa showed me the pictures when I dropped my stuff off and—”  
  
“—You’re staying with them?”  
  
“I am related to them.”  
  
“Yeah, but—” Emma shakes her head, a questionable amount of oxygen rushing out of her. There’s no way her lungs are functioning correctly. He told her he couldn't stay with her. She'd offered. And her head starts spinning, a mix of confusion and that frustration she’d been missing before and some more confusion just for good measure because the way Killian’s knuckles have gone white around his cup do not make sense. 

Liam and Elsa are standing a few feet away, barely any space between them and an impossibly cute kid draped over Liam’s chest. 

“Was it a fun party, at least?” Killian asks. 

“No, it was a shitty party, that’s why Liam offered to go with me.”  
  
“Did he just?”  
  
She stands up. That’s not an active decision either, but Killian’s glaring at open air and Emma can’t seem to catch her breath. “Yeah, he did,” she sneers, doing her best not to shout. She doesn’t want to wake Roland up. “It’s—well, there’s this guy and—”  
  
“—What guy?”  
  
Nothing about this conversation makes sense. 

Michael Bublé has transformed into A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack. Anna is dancing. Badly. 

“A guy at work,” Emma explains, “he’s a total dick. Just started this month, thinks he’s God’s gift to bail bonds and he keeps asking me out.”  
  
Killian blinks. That’s it. Emma wishes that weren’t so disappointing.

“Anyway,” she continues, “he kept talking about Christmas and the holiday party Zelena was throwing and so I just—I don’t know, I told him I was married.”  
  
“To my brother?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Another blink. This one is a bit more stunned than the last. Emma takes that as a victory. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“There’s nothing to understand,” Emma says, and her voice is starting to rise of its own volition. Or so she will argue. “Walsh is a dick. He’s constantly bugging me and I needed something to get him off my back, so I told him I was married, but then he started talking about meeting the husband—”  
  
“—He called it the husband? Verbatim?”  
  
“How many times can I tell you that he is a dick before that makes sense to you?”  
  
One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “I think we’ve reached our quota.”

“I wasn’t even planning on going to the party. It’s—Zelena’s always trying to prove something with these things and it’s always stupid fancy, but then I was whining about it to El and she kind of...well, if I showed up at the party with a date in the form of a husband, then Walsh would have to shut up, right?”  
  
Killian shrugs.

“Your support knows no bounds.”  
  
“You said Liam offered, though,” Killian mumbles, and Emma doesn’t mistake the tone of his voice for anything except the jealousy that does not make any sense at all. Still. “How did that happen?”  
  
“He’s got a wedding ring. He didn’t have anything to do that night. He knows me well enough to make it seem like we’re—”

“—Married? This is insane, you realize that?”  
  
“No it’s not,” Emma argues. “It totally worked. And El thought it was hysterical. That’s why she took so many pictures.”

“Insane.”

Emma groans. “I like hanging out with Liam. That’s all it was, plus he’s here in New York and if we went together, then El could do my hair too and I didn’t have to pay for that, and—we made fun of the food and kept terrible rhythm while we were dancing and honestly, you should have seen him, he totally geeked at all the art displays. Tried talking to me about lines and meaning. I’ve got a couple of pictures of his face and he’s just...you’ll have sibling ammunition for the rest of your life.”

The joke falls flat. A paper-thin joke. That joke wasn’t funny either.  
  
“Your holiday party was at an art gallery?”  
  
“Zelena,” Emma says, like that’s a reason and it kind of is and Killian’s heard enough about her job to know. Everything except Walsh. She hadn’t mentioned Walsh. 

Like, ever. 

She didn’t want him to worry. Or, something. She can’t rationalize it. And Elsa had been very quick to point that out as well. 

“Did you have a ring?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“And that was—”  
  
“—Not everyone wears wedding rings,” Emma interrupts. She’s starting to get annoyed. At both Killian and the lack of alcohol in her cup. “All that mattered was that there was a guy who claimed to be married to me, hung out with me all night and—”  
  
“—And?”  
  
Killian all but barks out the question, pushing to the edge of the couch. His spine doesn’t actually grow — Emma is at least positive of that — but he somehow looks a bit taller than he did just a few seconds before, feet flat on the floor like he’s using the fake wood as leverage in whatever argument they’re staging. 

Unexpected, the grand slam version. 

“And what?”  
  
Killian huffs, head falling like his neck had simply given up. Emma isn’t even aware of the state of her stomach anymore, too preoccupied with her heart’s intention to beat its way out of her chest. 

“Nothing,” Killian mumbles. “I just—no, nothing.”  
  
“Why are you so pissed about this?”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Once more with feeling.”  
  
“I'm not,” Killian repeats, standing so quickly Emma stumbles back a step and she knows she doesn’t imagine the way his left arm jerks at his side. Like he’s stopping himself from reaching out. 

For her. 

Her heart might explode. 

Maybe she’ll buy two bottles of wine. 

“It worked,” Emma says again, and they’re going in circles. That would, at least, explain her dizziness. It certainly doesn’t have anything to do with the specific shade of blue Killian’s eyes go. Or the tongue thing. 

Definitely not the tongue thing. 

“The dick hasn’t said anything else to you?” Killian asks. 

“Nuh uh. He’s very convinced I’m very happily married. Can’t even glance my direction anymore without turning bright red.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s—good. I guess.”  
  
“You guess?”  
  
“I guess.”

“This was a stand-up thing Liam did! And it’s not like I had a ton of other options for fake husbands! You do not live in this city.”  
  
Killian’s eyes bug. “Right.”  
  
“I’m going to punch you in the face.”  
  
“You’ve already had too much whisky for that.”

“Stop it.”  
  
“I can’t believe you guys thought this was a good idea,” Killian says, voice going low. “I would have—you know what? It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have had to do that, love. Come up with some fake thing and not tell me and—the dress looked good.”

Whatever sound she makes at that is somewhere between a gasp and a groan and Emma is all too aware of the stares they’re drawing—Mary Margaret’s gaze practically broadcasting its way into her brain, but then there are footsteps too and Killian’s chest shifts when he inhales. 

Sharply. 

“I’m going to...I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

He walks away before Emma can even begin to process formulating a response, her jaw dropping and Ruby is wearing tinsel in her hair. “So, uh,” she drawls, slinging an around Emma’s shoulders, “on a scale of one to eighty-billion, how bad was that?”  
  
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”  
  
“I’m going to say somewhere in the realm of seventy-six billion,” Mary Margaret grins. She hands Emma another glass.  
  
It’s water. 

“What the hell is this?”  
  
“You really can’t hold your liquor,” Mary Margaret reasons. “And I’m pretty sure you’ll want to be sober for this.”  
  
“Why do I have the gnawing suspicion that this is some kind of plan?”  
  
“Aw, we want to use gnawing in this situation?” Ruby asks, tugging on the side of Emma’s dress in an effort to get her back on the couch. “Sit. I know your knees aren’t going to handle much more of this. Also. Seventy-six billion, really?”  
  
Mary Margaret hums. “It obviously was bad because they’re both idiots, but it can’t be totally bad if he’s admitting to things.”

Emma collapses into the couch. 

It’s not dignified. She spills water on the front of herself. 

“Oh,” Ruby sighs. “Did we not actually get to public declarations, then?”  
  
Emma opens her mouth. And closes it. She does this several more times, but nothing changes and her dress is still damp and Mary Margaret is staring at her like she’s the world’s biggest charity case. 

Which seems oddly appropriate at Christmas. 

“We should probably take that as a no,” Mary Margaret murmurs. 

Emma’s lips pop when she opens her mouth, that time, trying to quell whatever feeling is bubbling in the pit of her stomach and it’s mostly more confusion, but it’s also a bit of hope and—

“What do you think you know?” Emma asks.  
  
Ruby grins. Slow. Measured. Exceptionally wolf-like. “Way more than you do. And it’s kind of because you’re an idiot and kind of because he’s an idiot and—”  
  
“—Who? Killian?”  
  
“No, the other guy you’re stupid in love with.”

The plastic in Emma’s hand cracks. It’s honestly the most impressive display of strength she’s ever shown. 

She’s disappointed Killian isn’t there to see it. 

That is...dumb. 

“Ok,” Ruby says pointedly, “should we start at the beginning, then?”  
  
Emma doesn’t answer. She can’t.  
  
Mary Margaret laughs. “It’s a very good place to start.”  
  
“Do not quote things at me, that is not a Christmas song.”  
  
“Well, no, because that’s not My Favorite Things, but—”  
  
“—Speak words,” Emma shouts, and Will practically hisses when Roland stirs in his lap. She grits her teeth. “Sorry, sorry, I just—what is happening right now?”  
  
“Aside from you and Killian being the single most obtuse people on the planet?” he asks. 

“The guy has a point,” Ruby nods. Emma might be dying. She figures it’s a byproduct of her exploding heart. “Let’s not say the word gnawing anymore and then talk about how going to your holiday Christmas party with Liam Jones is Killian Jones’ literal worst nightmare.”  
  
“Only we won’t harp on the hyperbolic use of the word literal,” Mary Margaret adds.

Emma’s mouth has gone dry. 

Ruby rolls her eyes. “Yeah, thank you, Mrs. Nolan, I’m sure grammar will come up a lot when Emma is realizing that Killian’s also stupid in love with her—” She cuts herself off, pausing so she can laugh uproariously. “Look at her face.”  
  
“You’re not making any sense,” Emma whispers. 

Mary Margaret sighs. 

“But, that’s—” Emma fumbles, trying to find the right words and there aren’t any right words and her whole body appears to be systematically shutting down now. “Killian doesn’t live in New York.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“He lives in Boston.”  
  
“You’re just saying facts now,” Ruby points out. “The love thing was also a fact. Everyone knows that. How do you not know that?”  
  
“This is why she used the word gnaw before,” Mary Margaret says. “Em, for what it’s worth, we did not agree to this negative an intervention.”  
  
Emma tilts her head. "Just a generic run-of-the-mill intervention, then?”  
  
“Did you honestly not think that Killian wouldn’t react to you pretending to be married to his brother?”  
  
“We’re not actually married! His brother is married! Already! For years! I helped set Liam and Elsa up!”  
  
“You’re going to wake up the whole block,” Will complains. 

There is not enough oxygen in any known atmosphere for Emma to exhale as dramatically as she’d like to. She tries anyway, a huff and heave of her shoulders, wide eyes that are starting to water for more reasons than she’d like to acknowledge. 

“Emma,” Ruby says, leaning forward until their foreheads are nearly bumping, “my friend, my love, my dear. You are an idiot.”  
  
Mary Margaret clicks her tongue. 

Ruby ignores her. 

Will’s cackle is going to wake up Roland. 

“He’s been glaring at open air all night,” Ruby continues, “because he couldn’t wrap his mind around your plan—”  
  
“—Which was only kind of idiotic,” Mary Margaret mutters.

“No, totally idiotic. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the dick isn’t asking you out anymore, but, also you probably should have mentioned the dick to Killian and told him about the plan because he wasn’t happy.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Emma argues. “Nothing happened! It wasn’t real, it was—Liam is—”  
  
“—Some kind of quasi older brother figure because you’re, as previously discussed, stupid in love with Liam’s younger brother and maybe eventually we’ll get into actual familial relationships, but…”  
  
“No rush on that,” Mary Margaret adds. Emma can’t see straight. “You should probably date first or something.”  
  
“Or something,” Will echoes. 

Emma shakes her head slowly—like that will help settle the thoughts bouncing around her brain, but it only seems to rattle her brain in her skull and Mary Margaret tugs the glass of water out of her hand. 

That’s for the best. 

She’d look like a crazy person running out of the apartment building with a glass of water. And they’ve already established that she’s pretty firmly entrenched in the idiot realm. 

“I’ll be back,” Emma announces. 

Mary Margaret and Ruby are both going to dislocate their jaws from smiling so wide, Will still laughing softly when Emma dashes by him. 

“No, you won’t,” he calls out behind her. She barely hears. She doesn’t grab her jacket. 

Honestly, idiot. 

Emma spins on the spot, but there’s no one else on the block. It’s starting to snow. She’s going to take that as some romantic sign, already sprinting uptown and she’s got a hunch and a feeling and a very enthusiastic right arm. 

A cab skids to a stop almost immediately. 

That’s another sign, she’s positive. 

“70th and West End,” Emma says, out of breath and excited and the driver only grumbles a little bit about having to drive so many blocks the Saturday before Christmas. 

It takes forever. Red lights and gridlock and people crossing the street at inopportune times, Emma's right boot threatening to tap a hole through the cab floor. There are goosebumps on her arms. 

And she barely swipes her card before she’s racing back onto the sidewalk, sprinting up slippery steps with a balance she did not possess a few hours earlier, reaching into her back pocket to find—  
  
“Ah, fuck.”  
  
Her keys are in her jacket. 

Fifty blocks downtown. 

“Killian! Killian, I know you’re in here! Open the door.” Emma bangs her fist, kicks it a few times as well, curious tourists glancing her direction. “Killian,” she shouts. “Seriously, come down here, I don’t have my keys!”

She almost falls over. 

The door swings open, Killian standing on the other side of the threshold with a thunderous expression and sockless feet. 

Emma tugs her lips behind her teeth. 

“You have keys to Liam and Elsa’s apartment?”  
  
“I babysit your nephew a lot,” she mutters. “You going to let me in? ”He waves an arm, taking a step back and Emma does her best not to jump when the door slams behind her. Neither one of them move. 

There’s garland in the lobby. 

Anna very likely had something to do with that. 

“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I told you," Killian says, “I’m related to them.”  
  
“You didn’t even tell them you were leaving. You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”  
  
The tips of his ears go red, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yeah, that was—well, it was admittedly kind of shitty, but I—”  
  
“—Why were you pissed about the holiday party?”  
  
“I wasn’t. You should go back downtown, Swan. It’ll be more fun than here.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m not worried about fun. I’m worried about you and I just…” Emma trails off, a quick shrug and more nerves than she expected because Ruby was right and Will was right and the whole thing was patently idiotic. 

“It’s such a stupid thing to be mad about,” Killian mumbles, quiet enough that Emma barely hears it. Especially when she’s gasping. “I don’t—El showed me the pictures and she was laughing the whole time and I—Swan, it felt like every nerve-ending in my body short-circuited.”  
  
Nothing. She can’t respond. 

She’s biting her lip. 

“It was like something was clawing at the back of my brain,” Killian says. “God, that’s a disgusting word. Don’t fault me for that word.”  
  
“I said gnawing before. So.” Emma shrugs again, trying to smile. His eyes definitely get bluer. 

There’s a distinct draft in that lobby. 

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah, I, um—well, we had an audience, I guess and people with some pretty scathing opinions.”  
  
“I can only imagine what Liam’s going to say. He keeps rolling his eyes whenever I’m within five feet of him.”  
  
“Jerk.”  
  
“Nah, that might be me.”  
  
“Might be,” Emma agrees. It’s easier to smile at that, Killian rocking into her space and he lets his fingers graze her side that time, a barely-there touch that leaves more goosebumps exploding on her skin. 

“You said you would have,” Emma presses. “That, uh—you would have done...something? You didn’t finish the sentence.”  
  
“It’s a frustrating habit of mine.”  
  
“I could threaten to punch you again.”  
  
“Please don’t do that.” 

Killian huffs, moving his hand out of his hair so he can drag it across his face instead and his tongue swipes across his teeth in a move trending so close to obscene that Emma nearly melts on the spot. 

Whatever friendship title they’ve claimed before has evaporated. 

More science. 

“You don’t live here,” Emma whispers, not sure why she’s still talking. “You live in Boston and we’re, I mean—I wouldn’t want to make you play—”  
  
“—I don’t want to be your fake husband, love.”

“No?”  
  
“No,” Killian repeats, crowding into her space and there’s a wall behind her. Emma is only aware of it when her head bumps plaster, swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat and hoping he can’t hear the thud of her pulse. “And I would have gone to the party with you. Any party, really. That’s—God, I want that, Swan. You and me and—” He licks his lips. Emma still has not melted. A Christmas miracle. “I don’t want to be your fake anything, Emma. And I don’t want anyone else to be, least of my goddamn brother and I—”  
  
“—I love you,” she interrupts. 

They both move at that, Emma’s head colliding with the wall again. She lets out a soft gasp of pain, but that also might have been because that string of words in that particular order was not part of any plan. 

It should have been. 

And she was never going to date Walsh. Because he was a dick. Or anyone else. Ever. 

“Oh,” Emma groans, “That’s—God, that’s so—”  
  
They both desperately need to finish their sentences. 

She’ll worry about that later. Presumably after the kissing. 

Killian’s head drops, a hand finding the small of Emma’s back so he can pull her closer and the tongue thing is better when she’s on the receiving end of it. She arches her back, trying to stand where he is, like she’s also trying to crawl into the center of him, which is admittedly a little disgusting, but it kind of circles her around and he’s already taking up so much space in her soul that she assumes it’s a two-way street. 

His fingers keep moving, drifting up her spine and carding through the ends of her hair until he’s cupping the back of her head and keeping her exactly where she is. 

As if she’d be inclined to move. 

She tilts her head. He catches her lower lip between his teeth. She pushes up on her toes. His hand finds its way under her shirt. 

It’s a little bruising and the complete opposite, a weird contradiction that Emma wants to hold onto with both hands, like chocolate and peppermint and everything good and great and something about Christmas miracles. 

It’s not a miracle. 

It is...inevitable, maybe. 

And she’s not sure how long they stand there, breaking apart to catch their breath before they find each other again, swaying slightly until Emma’s grip on his shirt threatens to tear the fabric. 

“So, uh,” Emma mumbles, “that was ok?”  
  
“Should we make out some more?”  
  
She laughs, giggles, really, rolling her whole head, which is exactly how she manage to glance up—at the mistletoe hanging above them. “Did you see that?”  
  
“God, Anna is a decorating menace.”  
  
“Not an answer.”  
  
“No,” Killian grins. “And I love you too.”

Emma doesn’t quite freeze—not after her own declarations and his misplaced jealousy and the exceptionally good making out, but she does make another vaguely surprised noise and Killian kisses the bridge of the nose. 

The butterflies in her stomach are powerful enough to take over several governments. 

Peace on Earth, goodwill to men. 

“I love you,” he repeats. “Forever and I was—god fuck that guy in your office—”  
  
“—Less romantic, honestly—”  
  
“—Stop interrupting, then.” Emma’s calves object to the strain she’s putting them under, but she doesn’t try to move, just presses soft kisses to the curve of Killian’s jaw and the side of his neck and she’s going to claim the shudder that runs through his whole body as a both a sign and a victory. “I love you, Emma,” he says, “And I knew I was also being a dick about this whole thing, but I—this thing that we’ve got, I don’t...you are the most important thing in my life, you know that?”  
  
She blushes, can feel the heat of it rising in her cheeks. “That’s very romantic.”  
  
“That was the goal, yeah. I don’t want to mess this up, but then Liam was talking about parties and fake marriages and—like I said, my brain short-circuited and I kept thinking about everything I wanted and I’m sorry.”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“I did realize at some point that you weren't ruining my brother’s marriage.”  
  
“El probably wouldn’t let me babysit anymore.”  
  
“Yeah, and then they’d have to pay someone.”  
  
“It’d be a whole thing.”  
  
He chuckles softly, breath warm against her skin. She’s never going to get rid of the goosebumps. “A ridiculous thing.”  
  
“So, uh—what happens now?”  
  
“There’s wine upstairs. It’s very fancy.”  
  
“I won’t like that.”  
  
“Ah, that’s true. You think anywhere is still open?”  
  
“Only one way to find out, right?” Emma shrugs, hoping the question isn’t as two-fold as it sounds. 

Killian kisses the top of her hair. “Let’s get you a coat first.”

They do eventually get wine, but they’re also very good at making out and Emma’s got priorities. Or, whatever. 

And she’s not sure when exactly they fall asleep, curled against Killian’s side in the corner of a different couch, but her eyes flutter open when she hears a far-too-knowing laugh, Liam standing there with his arms crossed and a wry smile on his face. 

“So,” he says, “do I get credit for this, or...how does that work?”  
  
“Fuck off, Liam,” Killian grumbles, not bothering to open his eyes. 

“Coal in your stocking.”  
  
“Go away.”

“You know you should take him to that art gallery, Em. See how much better I am at picking up on little intricacies and allusions to emotion.”  
  
Emma throws a pillow at him. “Go away, Liam.”  
  
“We do have beds in this apartment, you know.”

Killian’s head snaps up. He doesn’t look at Liam. He stares at Emma—blatant hope and even more obvious want and Liam gags when she presses up to kiss Killian. 

“My keys are at Ruby’s anyway,” she reasons. “No point in leaving now.”

“We can go get them tomorrow,, Killian says.

Liam throws the pillow back at them. “The romance is palpable. Seriously, get off my couch. Go to bed and then we’re baking cookies tomorrow. As a familial unit.”

“Aye aye,” Killian grouses, but his lips quirk up anyway and his hand finds Emma’s when they stumble down the hallway. 

She takes more pictures while they bake. 

And sends them both to Ruby and Mary Margaret. 


	6. Want Something That Lasts Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon: "i planned out this super romantic proposal and you just ruined it by beating me to whole proposing thing." 
> 
> Is a movie a Christmas movie because Christmas is referenced? Why did Santa exist in Narnia? Let's hang out and discuss on [Tumblr](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com).

“You think we should get flowers?”  
  
Killian hums—far too distracted to be even remotely helpful and he doesn’t have to look up to know David is glaring at him. That’s been a theme for the last few hours. 

This has lasted several hours. 

Already. 

And he probably should have said no. 

He wanted to say no. He had every intention of saying now. But David and Mary Margaret had gotten to the city a few days before and David had that look this morning—some kind of wide-eyed, enthusiastic, nervous thing that made Killian exhale dramatically and he was agreeing before he realized what he was doing and Emma’s gaze had gone a little glossy when she realized what was happening. 

He considered that partially a win. 

Even if it lost him some friendship points.

“What kind of flowers do you think?” David presses, and Killian has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning. That’s also not great. As far as friendship goes. 

Because he figures this is pretty par for the friendship course. 

Helping. 

Planning. 

Helping to plan. 

A proposal. 

David is going to propose to Mary Margaret. At Christmas. And it will be extravagant and over the top and, Killian is sure, there will be several different types of flowers. Mary Margaret will very likely cry. 

She will definitely say yes. 

And that’s nice. It’s better than nice really, because Killian is only kind of an ass and something vaguely Grinch-like and the only reason for either one of those things is because—

“Seriously,” David snaps, Killian nearly flying off the couch when the word feels like it reaches out to smack him across the face. With romance. Of the holiday variety. “Are you ok?”  
  
“Yup.”   
  
“No, really.”   
  
“No, really,” Killian echoes, but David has known him long enough to know a blatant lie when he hears one. It probably does some slapping of its own. “Although I am admittedly a little confused by this we who is buying flowers. I’m not sure how I feel about donating to the monetary cause of your wedding.”   
  
“This is not the wedding.”   
  
Killian shrugs. 

“Do you have a romantic bone in your body?” David groans. That feels unfair. Killian doesn’t mention that. David is nervous enough already, he absolutely cannot cope with any sort of romance that involves Killian and his sister. 

Maybe Killian will start texting Emma updates of the day. She’d enjoy that. He’d enjoy that. He’d enjoy it more if he was with her and going through his own plans and his own vaguely Christmas-type hopes, but—

David appears to be growling. 

It’s very loud, whatever the sound is.

“Am I being a jerk about this?” David asks. He slumps forward when he mumbles the question, an obvious burst of nervous energy and Killian can’t help but feel for him. 

All things considered, proposing at any time is a little terrifying. But proposing at Christmas — with their friends coming into the city and long-standing traditions that require an almost excessive amount of eggnog and mulled wine is something entirely different. 

It requires a certain kind of romantic fortitude. 

And a best man who is willing to spend all day going over flower options. 

Killian assumes he’s going to be the best man at this wedding. 

He will look very good in a tux. And Emma will look better in a maid of honor dress. 

There’s the silver lining he’s looking for. 

“A little,” Killian admits, “but you’re also freaking out. So I’m willing to overlook the jerkiness of it.”  
  
“Is jerkiness a word?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“You think I’m freaking out?”   
  
“I’m also a little offended that you don’t think you’re freaking out.”

David sneers, dropping onto the edge of the coffee table. He nearly knocks Killian’s feet off in the process. “Flowers? Thoughts?”  
  
“Oh, are we speaking in one-word questions now? That might get old pretty quickly.”   
  
David rolls his eyes. And his whole head. 

Killian chuckles lightly, slumping further into the couch and the pinch in his lungs loosens just a bit. He can hear his phone vibrating in his pocket. It’s louder when it vibrates against everything else in there. 

“Poinsettias?” David asks. 

“They’re ugly aren’t they? Also I’m somewhere in the realm of seventy-two percent positive that they represent death.”  
  
“That’s not a very good grade.”

“You want me to look it up?”  
  
“Yes, I absolutely do.”   
  
Killian clicks his tongue, but he can still make out the buzz of his phone and he’s closer to one-hundred percent positive that it’s Emma. 

He’s right. 

“Hey,” Killian breathes into the phone, Emma’s soft laugh in his ear. He can feel his smile. That’s only vaguely ridiculous. Decidedly romantic, though. “Are poinsettias deadly?”  
  
She doesn’t answer immediately. And Killian assumes that’s because she’s blinking at open air in their kitchen where, per the schedule, she and Mary Margaret are slated to be baking for the majority of the afternoon. 

“Am I making that up?” Killian asks. “I feel like I'm making it up.”

David groans. “This is not helping my overall confidence!”  
  
“Swan, this is a very serious question about poinsettias, so if you’ve got any facts to share about the very ugly flower—”   
  
“Judgmental about poinsettias, aren’t we?” she mutters. Definitely smiling too. 

He can tell. 

What a weirdo. 

“What are your thoughts about poinsettias, love?”  
  
“Well, they’re ugly,” Emma says, and Killian can’t help whatever expression takes over his face. David looks like he’s trying not to lay across the entire coffee table. 

“I told you,” Killian cries. 

David flips him off. “Do you have a better Christmas flower suggestion?”  
  
“It’s not my proposal.”   
  
“Yeah, but you’re helping and—” David makes that noise again, head falling into his hands and Killian kind of feels bad. He’s still annoyed that his day has been commandeered, but he’s known David for years and he genuinely can’t remember a moment when he wasn’t head over heels for Mary Margaret, so—

He moves back into the living room, flicking his finger against David’s right wrist. “Holly? Is that a flower?”  
  
“No,” David and Emma answer at the same time before she adds, “Why is he freaking out, exactly? Also, is this not a dangerous conversation we’re having?”   
  
David mumbles something that sounds like an agreement, but Killian’s willing to be a bit selfish for a moment. And talk to his girlfriend. Flirt with his girlfriend. 

Still his girlfriend. 

Especially tonight. 

“Also,” Emma continues, voice dropping a bit, “poinsettias do not represent death.” David’s head finally jerks up, quick enough that Killian is briefly worried for the state of his neck, and Emma is not done. “They are, however, the victim of a long-standing urban legend that suggested they were poisonous. It lasted forever. In 1970 the FDA even published an actual pamphlet saying that one leaf could kill a kid.”  
  
“This is not great,” David grumbles. “How did they eventually decide that they weren’t deadly?”

“Uh—rats.”  
  
“Oh jeez.”   
  
“Did you say jeez?” Killian asks. “What year is it?”   
  
“The year of freaking out grooms,” Emma says.   
  
“That would suggest they’re getting married by the end of the year, though.”   
  
“Damn, that’s true.”   
  
“You two know I’m sitting here, right?” David sneers. Emma’s smile widens. Killian assumes. Knows, really. 

He resists the urge to walk back to his coat. And directly out the door. 

David is starting to look a little green. 

“I do have eyes, yes,” Killian nods. “And your middle finger is going to get stuck like that if you keep it in that position for too long.”  
  
Emma snickers. 

His heart may grow. It’s another Grinch-type joke. 

“God,” David huffs. “Ok, so, uh—poinsettias aren’t actually deadly, but Em, Em, seriously, how did you know that?”  
  
“He wants to talk to me now, does he?” Emma quips. “I do have to go back to distracting the future bride at some point.”   
  
“Don’t jinx it!”   
  
“Is he insane?”   
  
“He might be,” Killian answers. “What are you baking?”   
  
“Right now? Chocolate chip, but that’s only because—”   
  
“—How did you know about the poinsettias?” David yells. Killian is going to run out of parts of his mouth to bite by the end of the afternoon. 

“I know everything,” Emma answers simply, and he refuses to be held accountable for whatever that does to several different internal organs and the way his whole body surges forward when he laughs. 

David droops. Directly onto the coffee table. 

It is equally absurd and even more hysterical. 

“That can’t possibly be comfortable,” Killian muses. “Or good for your spine.”  
  
David flips him off. 

Third time’s the charm, or whatever. 

“Is he laying on something?” Emma asks knowingly, and Killian’s mouth is going to get stuck in perpetual smile.   
  
“I’m really worried about the lasting damage it’s going to have on his vertebrae.”   
  
“I can still hear you,” David growls. “Ok, no to the poinsettias, just—what time is it?”   
  
“Almost two o’clock.”   
  
He sighs. 

“You’re going to be late picking up the ring,” Emma mutters, only to gasp softly when she realizes what she’s said and the general proximity of Mary Margaret’s very well-tuned ears. “Ah, shit—David if you heard that, it’s fine, everything is fine and—Oh, hey M’s, you ready to keep baking?”

The green tinge in David’s cheeks grows more pronounced. 

And Killian can’t quite hear Mary Margaret’s answer, but it doesn’t sound entirely suspicious and he finds he’s nodding encouragingly at David’s prostrate body before he can come up with all the reasons why that’s not helpful at all. 

Emma’s still giving Mary Margaret assurances that _it’s fine, everything is fine, no I’m just making sure Killian has_ —

“Champagne,” he suggests. 

She hums, a thank you without actually saying the words, and that’s probably for the best because Killian is fairly positive David would have rolled onto the floor if they made it anymore obvious they were up to something.   
Mary Margaret is probably making that face. 

With the eyebrow thing. 

She’s very good at lifting her eyebrows. And making everyone feel like they’re about to get detention. 

“Champagne,” Emma repeats. “We need champagne for later, right?”  
  
It sounds like Mary Margaret says _yuh huh_. That is decidedly un-Mary Margaret. 

Killian grimaces, a quick glance towards David and the arm he’s got splayed across his face now and he doesn’t really think before he starts talking again, but his mouth is moving and there are words coming out and—  
  
“We’ll see you later, ok, love?”

She makes another noise in the affirmative, a mumbled string of something that sounds a bit like _get me my own bottle of champagne_ , but then Killian is stuffing his phone in his back pocket and ignoring the desire to look at his jacket again and the smile he forces on his feels a little strained. 

“Alright. Well, that went—”  
  
“—Terribly?” David asks.   
  
“Eh. We learned about poinsettias. That’s something, right?”   
  
“For what? Christmas trivia contests? Also did you think poinsettia had more t’s in it? It sounds like it should have more t’s.”   
  
“I’m genuinely starting to think you are going insane.”   
  
“Don’t we call it point-settia? Like that’s how you say it, right?”   
  
“This is the most ridiculous conversation we’ve ever had,” Killian says. “And we need to get your ring.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”  
  
“We’re starting to sound a little less enthused.”   
  
“Rats were poisoned, Killian.”   
  
He nods, lower lip stuck out and it’s only a little placating, but David hasn’t actually sat up yet, so maybe that’s exactly what he has to do. Friendship-wise. He’s very focused on the friendship aspect of this. 

Like it’s karma. 

For his own plans. 

God, that might lose him points too. 

“But not you,” Killian points out. “Or the presumed and eventual blushing bride. So, that’s something right?”  
  
David props himself up on his elbows. “You think she’ll blush?”   
  
“I think she’ll weep in extremely romantic fashion. Obviously. Seriously, are you not going insane?”   
  
“A little.”   
  
“Yeah, I figured. Ok, so aside from being stupid late to pick up your ring, what else do we have to do?”   
  
“Flowers. Maybe actually get champagne.”   
  
“That was a stroke of genius, right?”   
  
“Your girlfriend is incapable of lying.”   
  
Killian squeezes one eye shut. The word makes his stomach flip in quick succession. And if David weren’t slowly, but very obviously losing his mind, he would have noticed that. As it is, he just huffs out another bit of frustrated oxygen, hopping back to his feet and plastering his own fake smile on his face. 

“Alright,” he says, clapping Killian on the shoulder. “We need to get Turkish delight, too.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“Are you not aware of what Turkish delight is?”   
  
Killian shakes his head—partially in disbelief and partially in...no, all disbelief. “I’m very aware of what Turkish Delight is, but mostly in an Edmund Pevensie kind of way and—”   
  
“—Yeah, that’s exactly the vibe we’re going for.”   
  
“You want to vibe with Edmund Pevensie in your proposal?”   
  
“Oh, God, don’t say it like that,” David groans. “It’s her favorite book.”   
  
“Mary Margaret?”   
  
“Nah, the other person I want to marry.”   
  
“That was funny,” Killian says, falling into step with David when they walk towards the door and he refuses to be held accountable for whatever sound flies out of him when David’s fingers reach towards their jackets. 

“Are you dying?”  
  
Killian shakes his head brusquely, not trusting himself to speak and he needs to stop carrying it in his jacket pocket. But he...well, he wants. With everything and then some, a quiet desire that’s crept up his spine and taken root in every inch of his brain and every part of his heart until it’s all he can think about. Like some sort of crazed romantic lunatic. 

“Killian,” David prompts, and he actually flinches. This day is a disaster “Seriously, are you ok?”  
  
“You realize that Edmund Pevensie betrayed his family for Turkish delight, right? Like that’s a basic tenet of the story.”   
  
“But it’s good.”   
  
“Familial betray?”   
  
“Turkish delight. And Edmund redeems himself.”   
  
“In overtly religious ways,” Killian says. “Is this a Christmas story, even?”   
  
“Santa Claus is prominently featured, yes.”   
  
“You think he brought Turkish delight for Edmund after he became king?”   
  
Some of the tension between David’s shoulders almost visibly appears, a shaky laugh falling out of him. “At some point, when I’m presumably not insane, I will thank you for this, I swear.”   
  
“Don’t swear, Santa won’t appreciate it.”   
  
“Or maybe he’ll arm me with a bow.”   
  
“Weird, right? Just doling out weapons to children. How old was Susan supposed to be when they found Santa?”   
  
“He found them, technically.”   
  
“Remember when I said the poinsettia conversation was the most ridiculous we’d ever had?” Killian mutters, pushing his arms into his jacket. It feels heavier than usual. “I lied. This is definitely the most ridiculous.”   
  
“Entertaining, though?”   
  
“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”

David snorts, yanking his own jacket on and Emma is texting Killian. It is absolutely complaints about chocolate chip cookies and the fact that they are not snickerdoodles.

It is almost stupid how in love he is with his own girlfriend. 

Despite his growing disdain for that particular moniker. 

They’ll get there. 

After an in-depth analysis of the entire Narnia franchise. 

“It’s fair,” David agrees. “And Edmund figured his shit out, eventually. He was wavering even before he got Aslan and the not-so-covert religious allusions. Plus—”  
  
“—God, how is there more?”   
  
“This is it, really. It’s definitely Christmas-related, at least story-wise, because they make a big deal about Narnia under Jadis’ rule—”   
  
“—Who the hell is that?”   
  
“When is the last time you read the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?”   
  
Killian snaps his jaw. “I was, like, eight. Max. Should I know who Jadis is?”   
  
“The aforementioned witch,” David explains, swinging open the door and grabbing Killian’s keys off the hook nearby. Killian catches them. “Is named Jadis. It’s not important to the plot—”   
  
“—Seriously, is any of this important?”   
  
“Let me get to my point. Which is that, Narnia, while not explicitly a Christmas book, does highlight the overall importance of Christmas to the general zeitgeist and suggests that the arrival of good things will also inspire Christmas. To, you know—or whatever.”

“You just used the words explicit, zeitgeist and Christmas in the same sentence,” Killian says, and he is physically incapable of keeping a straight face. 

“Christmas is good, is what I’m getting at.”  
  
“Mmmhm. Ridiculous. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Turkish delight, right?”

Wrong. Fundamentally and completely wrong. 

“Maybe if he we were high kings of Narnia,” David grumbles, letting his forehead drop onto the shelf in the third Gristedes they’ve walked into in the last hour. 

Killian sighs. “Only Peter was high king, God, get your act together.”  
  
“You couldn’t remember the witch’s name before!”   
  
“Yeah, but this is basic and—”   
  
“—What about like...speciality markets? What time is it now?”   
  
“Almost four.”   
  
“Shit. And we’re supposed to be at Belle and Scarlet’s at what time?”   
  
“Six.”   
  
“Shit. Again.”   
  
“I don’t even remember what street we’re on,” Killian says, tugging his phone out of his pocket and there are what, at first glance, appears to be several thousand texts there. And a few missed phone calls. 

Honestly, everyone knows about this proposal except Mary Margaret. 

Mary Margaret may know too. 

Killian hopes Mary Margaret doesn’t know. 

“Lexington,” David answers. 

“And?”  
  
“I don’t know. Some cross street that doesn’t have Turkish delight.”   
  
It’s wrong to laugh. It is. But Killian can’t help it and then David is joining and they’ve been to so many supermarkets. 

“It’s pretty awesome that you’re doing all this,” Killian says. He didn’t mean to do that either, but that appears to be his MO for the day and David’s half smile might win him every potential friendship point. 

An explosion of friendship points.   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Romantic, even,” Killian adds. “The swooning will be quick and imminent.”   
  
“Sounds less romantic.”   
  
“You’ve got no reason to be nervous.”   
  
David groans. “Yeah, that’s not how it works, really. This is—I mean, it’s a big deal, right? The rest of your life and happily and ever after and all of that?”   
  
“I’d suggest not using the phrase all of that in your proposal.”   
  
“A gentleman and a scholar, you are.”   
  
He smiles, a hand in his hair and eyes flitting back towards his phone screen. “I’m not saying it isn’t a big deal. It is. But you guys are—” Killian shrugs. “—I don’t know, the inspiration for all other romantic endeavors.”   
  
“I think you’re trying to impress me with your vocabulary.”   
  
“There’s another supermarket on 86th Street, we could probably try there.”   
  
David takes a deep breath, chest shifting and growing with the force of it, but then his hand is back on Killian’s shoulder and his smile is as honest as its been all day, dim memories of college-age dates and slightly different nerves and—   
  
“Thank you,” he says. “For—all of this. Narnia analysis not withstanding. It’s...I wouldn’t have have trusted anyone else to help me scour Manhattan for a dessert I really thought more people would be inclined to buy.”   
  
“You’ll make me blush.”   
  
“I’m serious. I’m freaking out a little and you’re—well, you’re you.”   
  
“I’m me?” Killian asks.   
  
“You,” David nods. “A good guy and willing to go along with my bullshit—”   
  
“—Seriously you have such a way with words.”   
  
“You got Emma to help distract Mary Margaret.”   
  
“That didn’t take much convincing,” Killian objects. “Your sister is a much better person than I am.”   
  
“And you’re stupid in love with her.”   
  
“Yeah, I am.”   
  
“Quick agree.”   
  
“Perpetually.”   
  
David presses his lips together, eyes narrowing slightly and Killian can almost hear the ideas and theories bouncing around his skull, but neither of them say anything and that’s probably for the best and they have to get to Fairway anyway. 

They’re definitely at least five blocks away. 

“You want to find some Turkish delight?”  
  
“Perpetually,” Killian repeats. 

They end up buying seven boxes at Fairway. Just to be safe. 

And Killian has to blink several times to make sure they’re in the right place when they get to Belle and Will’s apartment — an explosion of garland and tinsel and actual ornaments hanging from the ceiling.  
  
“Is that safe?” he asks Emma, hardly out of his jacket before she’s plastered to his side and Ruby definitely brought champagne.   
  
Opened it, as well, it seems. 

“Absolutely not,” Emma mutters. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, eyes bright far too green to be anything except vaguely festive and a color Killian would be more than willing to stare at for the rest of the night, but then he’s flinching because Anna and Ariel are snapping crackers and Emma’s laugh seems to find its way under his skin and possibly into his soul and—

She’d very nearly touched his jacket. 

“How’d today go?” she asks, fingers curling around the front of his shirt like she’s using him for balance.

He kisses her forehead. 

On instinct.

“Was that the answer?” Emma mumbles. “Because it’s a very one-sided conversation we’re having here.”  
  
“You’re holding your own pretty well, love.”   
  
“Oh, two-fold critique.”   
  
“Is it good champagne?”   
  
“Did you get some?”   
  
He nods, nose brushing against her skin and he can’t help but wrap his arm around her middle, like he’s trying to make sure she doesn’t ever leave. He’s asking questions without actually voicing them. 

David totally knew. 

“I love you,” Killian says before he can stop himself. 

Emma tilts her head up. “Yeah?”  
  
“Hopefully that wasn’t up for debate.”   
  
“Nah, it wasn’t. I just—that was nice. You look nice, did I mention that?”   
  
His cheeks flame, a heat that isn’t entirely uncomfortable, but might be a hint of nervous energy and the words are there, sitting on the tip of Killian’s tongue and begging to be said and asked and kissed. He can’t kiss out words. 

He’s very willing to try. 

“Are you ok?” Emma asks, pushing up on her toes to let her fingertips graze his jaw. His throat suddenly feels very small. 

And he hadn’t been nervous before. 

Not once. 

Not when he was thinking about the question. Or practicing the question, muttering it under his breath in the shower or the backseat of Ubers, and that had drawn more than a few questionable glances, but that one driver had actually been nice when he explained and then they’d kind of practiced together and Killian had given that guy a five-star review. 

He was pretty confident it was going to go well. 

And yet. 

Now, with the champagne and the specific color of Emma’s eyes and the threat of concussion by glass ornament quite literally hanging over him, he’s nervous. He wants it to be perfect. He wants it to be better than perfect, he wants—

David clinks the side of his glass, the room quieting almost immediately. 

He’s not quite green anymore, but definitely paler than normal and Emma pulls herself closer to Killian. 

“So, uh—” David starts, more than a few muted snickers and Killian swears he can feel Emma’s smile through his shirt. “It’s…” He exhales, shaky and excited and a slew of adjectives that practically ring with romance, stuffing his hand into his pocket to grab they box they picked up nearly an hour later than originally scheduled. 

Emma sniffles. 

Killian kisses her hair again. 

Mary Margaret gasps. 

So, maybe she had no idea. 

“I love you, Mary Margaret,” David says, dropping onto one knee. Emma is not the only one crying now, Killian’s gaze flitting around the room to find their friends with matching looks on their faces, more than a few hands covering mouths and Ariel keeps having to drag her palm over her cheeks to keep the tears from flowing too freely. 

“I can’t remember when I didn’t,” he adds, “and I—well, this seemed like the perfect moment. For us. With everyone else we love here and—” He reaches behind him, an awkward twist that ends with a soft grunt because shoulders aren’t supposed to twit that way. David’s fingers find the boxy of Turkish delight eventually, and it is several different miracles that it doesn’t spill onto the floor, but the floor is also suddenly covered by a broken glass ornament and—

Mary Margaret starts to laugh. 

It’s a little shaky at first, probably because of the tears and perfect imperfection of the whole thing, but the ornament also didn’t land on anyone, so. Points. Of the Christmas variety. 

“Yeah,” she says. 

David’s eyes bug. “What?”  
  
“Yes. I—well, that’s the goal here, right?”   
  
“I didn’t even ask yet!”   
  
“We’re under attack by the ornaments, though.”

Ruby growls. “This is festive!”  
  
“Oh my God,” David grouses, and Mary Margaret looks a bit like the sun. Emma sniffles again. 

Killian is going to set a record for kisses pressed to her hair. 

“Ask, then,” Mary Margaret says, fingers fluttering at her side with an undeniable sort of energy. “I, uh—”  
  
“Will you marry me?” David cuts in. 

“Yes.”  
  
He doesn’t jump, but he might teleport into her space, fervent kisses and roaming hands and the Turkish delight joins the ornament on the floor. 

“Good thing we bought extra, huh?” Killian calls, David making a gesture behind Mary Margaret’s head. They don’t stop kissing. 

And he does get the ring on her finger eventually, glass and whatever gelatin substance makes up Turkish delight in the garbage, champagne flowing and glasses toasted and there are pictures and smiles and then more champagne because that’s just how they operate and—

Emma stumbles through their door hours later, fingers still clinging to Killian with a slightly more tired smile. “God, that was fun,” she breathes, and he does not know what to do with every emotion he’s ever felt and currently feels for her. 

It’s too much. 

And not enough. 

“You’ve got that face on,” Emma accuses, another finger tap to his cheek. He nips at her finger, getting the yelp he fully expected and he refuses to do anything else before he kisses her. 

He’s got priorities. 

She doesn’t quite melt, but she might sag against him, wholly romantic—like she’s certain he’ll hold on and the thought only spurs him on, his tongue brushing her lips and his fingers inching up her side, tracing over skin and tugging her closer. 

Emma sighs into his mouth, nose scrunched against his and it’s not particularly graceful, but she’s also only managed to get one of her boots off and eventually Killian will blame that for whatever happens next. 

Because whatever happens next is not part of any plan he ever came up with. 

He hopes the Uber driver isn’t disappointed in him. 

“Marry me,” he mumbles. 

“What did you say?”  
  
Ice water. In his veins. Metaphorically dumped over his head. It’s presumably worse than getting hit with an ornament. 

And Killian doesn’t know what to do, mouth opening and closing quick enough that he’s sure there’s a Nutcracker joke to be made. 

Emma doesn’t blink. 

She doesn’t look away. 

Her fingers had been actively trying to unbutton his pants. 

Less romantic than he intended.   
  
“Say it again,” she whispers, and Killian doesn’t think he mistakes the greedy edge to her voice. He swallows, leaning back and pulling the box out of his jacket and Emma doesn’t gasp. 

She beams. 

Like the top of a Christmas tree. 

And the sun. And the moon and a few stars thrown in for good measure, a rather jarring return to romance because—  
  
“I’ve been carrying this around for weeks,” Killian says softly. “Trying to think of the perfect moment and how it would be good and great and every other adjective something like this is supposed to be. And I came up with the party.”   
  
“This party? The one we just went to?”   
  
“One and the same. All our friends, presumably a lot of champagne. I wasn’t expecting the ornaments, but—”   
  
“—Ruby really thought it was festive.”   
  
“Yeah, well—then David showed up here today with his own plan and he was freaking out and we had to get Turkish delight and figure out the history of poinsettias. And he kind of uh...well, he got to the proposing first.”   
  
“The stuff about poinsettias is really very common knowledge.”   
  
Killian shakes his head, nosing at Emma’s cheek and mouthing at the side of her neck and she shivers. He grins. “No, it’s not, love. But you knew and I—I think you might know everything.”   
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she laughs. Giggles, a little. He’s going to overstretch the muscles in his face. “I love you a ridiculous amount,” Emma adds. “And I—you were really going to do that tonight?”   
  
“I think I’m still doing it tonight, technically.”   
  
“God.”   
  
“The banter is part of our appeal, Swan.”   
  
She huffs, no frustration in the sound, a slightly different shade of green in her gaze and dots of pink on her cheeks when she looks up. “I love you. Again, just to really hammer the point home and I—shit, it’s so nice that you did that. For David and M’s and ah, God, I just said shit during your proposal, didn’t I?”   
  
“You did. I love you a ridiculous amount too.”

“I’d imagine that’s helpful for everything else.”  
  
“Everything else?”   
  
Emma nods, a sharp inhale and quicker exhale, fingers in Killian’s hair and her mouth just on the edge of his lips. “Say it one more time.”   
  
He’s not nervous anymore. 

“Will you marry me? I just—I want to marry you so much.”  
  
“I’m going to be honest the last part really sold it for me.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“Serious voice.”   
  
“Swan.”

She kisses him that time, a little greedy again and neither one of them really keep their footing when they trip towards the couch, but they don’t break apart either and that’s probably some deeper meaning that bodes well for the future and collective pronouns and rings on very specific fingers. 

“I need an answer here, love,” Killian says, kissing towards her collarbone. He cannot remember how Emma got onto her back. 

“Yes.”

“You want to go make out in bed?”  
  
“Do you get follow-up questions in a proposal?”   
  
“This one, apparently,” Killian laughs. Emma takes his hand as soon as he offers it, another nod and more stolen kisses, the pair of them leaving a trail of clothes behind him and eventually he has to go back to the living room to get the ring. 

He doesn’t bother putting his pants back on. 


	7. Once Again as in Olden Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doubling down on the prompts, with: "you can put your cold feet on me." & "i don't wanna get up-- you're comfy."
> 
> Is Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas the Christmas song most likely to get you to cry? It probably should be. Let's hang out and discuss on [Tumblr](https://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com).

She can’t stop shivering. 

Every inhale comes with an almost automatic exhale that seems to wobble its way out of Emma, uneven and shaky and neither of those are good adjectives, but none of this has been good and the storm had come out of nowhere. 

She assumes it’s a last-ditch effort to steer them off course, and while he might not be exactly the same man, Killian Jones is still exceptionally good in a crisis. And on his ship. 

She hasn’t told him that the Jolly is his ship yet. 

So, really, she might be the world’s biggest coward. 

Mostly Emma is pissed off. 

Magic storms. In the middle of summer. 

Of course. 

Fuck this reality, honestly. 

She lets out another burst of air, and it’s cold enough now that she can see it linger in the space in front of her. Every inch of Emma feels frozen—muscles tense and skin raw from the shackles she is positive she can still feel and she’s starting to think in metaphors now, anger curling at the base of her spine and threatening to burst out the tips of her fingers, but that may also just be her magic and—

“Mom?” Henry mutters, snow clinging to the edge of his hair. She jumps approximately forty-seven feet in the air. 

It is admittedly a rough estimate. 

Henry’s teeth find his lower lip, far too familiar to be anything except vaguely jarring. Emma huffs, and she’s not sure where her lungs continue to find enough oxygen to keep doing this, pressing the heel of her hand into her cheek, like that will help ground her and her vaguely vertical emotions. 

“Yeah, kid?”  
  
He jerks his head behind him, lights Emma hadn’t noticed before glimmering in the not-so-far distance, and maybe this will be ok. At least passably acceptable. Possibly warm. God, she wants to get warm again. 

That’s another metaphor. 

Killian hasn’t said a single word since they anchored the Jolly. Emma hopes that isn’t because she’d teleported them off the Jolly. She was actually surprised she’d been able to do it, but Regina had always told her magic was about emotion and she’s been feeling nothing except emotion, every single thing she hasn’t said yet and wants to say and is hopeful she’ll eventually be courageous enough to actually say. 

She’s started biting her lip at some point too. 

“We could get inside,” Henry suggests, already backpedaling and Emma knows there’s not really another option. The ends of her gown are drenched. She doesn’t want Henry to be out in this snow much longer. 

She’s going to strangle Issac as soon as she sees him. 

And then Rumplestilskin. 

And then Isaac again, for good measure. 

“Maybe get some food,” Henry continues. “That’s how it always works in the stories, right? Roadside taverns and mead and—’  
  
“—You are not getting mead,” Emma cuts in. 

Henry makes a distinctly teenage noise in the back of his throat, a bit of normal that Emma is going to think about for at least the next forty-five minutes if only because she can practically hear the nervous energy rolling off Killian. She wishes he would talk. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he does talk. 

“Alright,” Emma says, inhaling sharply. She’s desperately got to learn how to breathe. And control her magic. 

Killian flinches slightly. 

Henry widens his eyes. “Unless you guys want to break into some barn somewhere. Hay is warm and it’s not like we have any gold, do they use gold in the fake Enchanted Forest?”  
  
“No idea,” Emma shrugs. “I could probably just magic it, though. I think that’s possible and—”  
  
“—I have gold.”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance, far more fabric around her ankles than she’s used to. Killian’s staring at his shoes by the time she straightens out her knees, lips tugged tightly behind his teeth and impossibly straight shoulders, more nerves and anxiety wafting off him. 

Emma resists the urge to reach her hand forward. 

They’ve got to get out of here. 

She needs to magic herself some new clothes too. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, but that only gets him to furrow his brows, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

Her magic flares, racing up her spine and taking root in the back of her brain and the center of her soul, which also seems impossibly melodramatic. Killian lifts his head. 

“What else am I going to use it on?” he reasons with a shrug, and Emma can’t help the sound that flies out of her. 

It’s not a laugh — there is absolutely nothing funny about any of this — but it’s not quite the sigh she expects, something closer to a scoff and a hint of disbelief and her hand moves. 

She absolutely cannot help it. 

Her fingers brush over his, a quick hitch of his arm, like he’s not sure if he should pull back or push her away and Emma rocks closer, ducking her head into a gaze that can’t seem to hold hers for more than five seconds. 

Those few strands of hair drifting over his forehead may be the death of her. 

“It’s a fair question,” Henry mumbles. He’s smiling. She can tell, hear it in his voice and Emma’s cheeks object to her own lip-type movement, but it’s still snowing and freezing cold and—

Seriously those strands of hair. 

“See,” Killian says, “the lad’s got some sense.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Seems to suggest that I don't.”  
  
He blushes. It’s absurd and wonderful and entirely awful. All at the same time. She has no idea how she’s going to sleep when her magic is roaring in her veins. 

“No, no, no, that’s not—” Killian stammers, and Henry doesn’t even try to mask his laugh that time. 

“No?” Emma prompts.  
  
Killian swallows. The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching and it’s another rush of passably familiar that Emma wants to hold onto with both hands. “No,” he echoes. “I—we have to get out of this storm.”  
  
“This is what I’m saying,” Henry groans. “So we’ll use Killian’s money and we’ll get some food and maybe some mead and—”  
  
“—Seriously, how is no mead confusing?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder. Henry sneers. Killian is back to being frustratingly silent. 

The color in his cheeks hasn’t disappeared. 

It doesn’t have anything to do with the snow. 

Seriously, the snow has to stop soon. 

“Let’s go,” Emma says. She claps a hand on Henry’s shoulder, trusting that Killian will follow them when they start to move and that’s not quite a metaphor, but it might be the basis of everything else and—

She’s right. 

She can hear the snow crunching under his boots behind her. 

The air is musty and tinged with what smells like a mix of sweat and ale as soon as Emma pushes the door to the inn open, biting back a groan while her stomach does its best to rise up in the back of her throat. 

There are people everywhere, crowded at clearly sticky tables and tucked into dark corners, a surplus of leather and more than a few flashes of steel, the telltale sound of dice rolling on a variety of wooden surfaces. Emma’s eyes scan the space, gaze falling on what looks like the world’s oldest bar and a bald man with a round face and a towel draped over his shoulder. 

She snaps her fingers. 

And the magic that twists across her own face isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s warm, but it also makes it feel as if her skin is melting—like candle wax, shifting and reforming until her nose isn’t quite where it’s supposed to be, her eyes deep set and her forehead a bit wider. 

Her clothes have changed as well, gown replaced by breeches and boots that almost provide some warmth to her otherwise frozen toes, a vest and empty sword belt. 

She’ll have to fix that last part eventually, she’s sure. 

“Whoa,” Henry breathes. “Mom, that was so cool!” Emma can’t help the quick smile she gives him, a flash of pride that disappears almost as soon as her brand-new eyes land on Killian. 

He looks stunned. 

And maybe just a hint terrified. 

Of her. And her magic. 

The witch in the tower, indeed. 

“I’ll, uh—” she starts, but the words scratch at the inside of her throat like they’re not all that interested in being spoken. “I just figured it’d be best if no one saw me. I mean—do people even know what I look like?”  
  
“Lily did.”  
  
“Yeah, but she was a dragon.”  
  
“That we knocked out of the sky,” Henry reasons. “She’s probably got people to report back to. That’s how it always works in the—”  
  
“—Stories,” Emma finishes. Her stomach twists again, fear mixing with dread and those are kind of the same words. “We get a room. We eat. We get a few hours of sleep and then we get out of here. Got it?”

Henry nods once, and Emma doesn't bother glancing back at Killian. That’s not great. She’s not—

It doesn’t matter. 

This isn’t real. 

They’re getting out of here. She’s going to save all of them. 

And Killian isn’t freaked out by her magic at home. 

So. 

Emma stalks forward, twisting and turning between tables and half-drunk townsfolk, doing her best to breathe through her mouth while ignoring anyone’s curious gaze. It doesn’t matter. No one casts her a second glance, and it takes a few moments of pointed coughing to get the attention of the barkeep. 

He brings up the _crazy weather_ at least six times. 

Emma keeps nodding. It leaves the muscles in her neck aching, fear tugging on the nerve-endings there because she’s not entirely convinced this is a good idea, but then it’s only a few more minutes for gold to exchange hands, Killian dropping a small pouch of clinking coins on the wood in front of them. 

The key to the one room they have left in this entire godforsaken place is cold in Emma’s hand. 

One room. 

Naturally. 

She might kick Isaac too. Several times. 

“C’mon,” Emma says, nudging at Henry’s back when his eyes widen at the sight of several foaming mugs of...something. “Right, left, kid and up the stairs.”  
  
He grumbles as he moves, and part of her is loathe to to be responsible in a moment like this. Part of her wants to down several tankards of ale and a few more rounds of mead, but Emma also isn’t entirely confident in how to mix Enchanted Forest alcohol and—

There are two beds in their one room. 

Naturally. 

Version two point oh. 

She sighs, running a suddenly exhausted hand over her face, which is only a little jarring because it’s not really her face. The string of curses that fall out of her is more than a little surprising, even to herself, but—  
  
“I forgot to get food,” Emma hisses, half to herself and half to this version of the world and Henry is already perched on the edge of one of the beds. 

There are only two beds. 

She’s going to scream. She’s trying very hard not to cry. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Killian says, soft enough that Emma barely ears him. Her magic is doing that thing again. 

So is his jaw. 

She’s got to stop staring at his jaw. It’s far too close to his lips. 

“You sure?” she asks. He lowers his eyebrows again, a quick jerk of his head that feels a little placating and a little _hers_ , as if he’s amused every time she lets him do anything for her. 

And Henry. 

For them. 

Collectively. 

“Positive,” Killian promises. “I’m not sure it’ll be very good food, but—"  
  
“—We’ll live,” Emma interrupts. 

“Aye, I’m sure we will.”  
  
It’s not another promise. She knows. He knows. Henry knows. The goddamn barkeep probably knows. And yet. The words slink under Emma’s skin and find a rhythm with her pulse, a guarantee for a future that she’s only just started allowing herself to dream about. 

Idiot. 

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m going to come downstairs and do something vaguely threatening,” Emma says. 

Killian’s lips twitch. “I’ve no doubt.”  
  
“And there aren’t clocks in this realm,” Henry adds. He’s definitely still smiling. 

Killian nods again—although that one has a distinct air of confusion to it, which only serves to make Emma’s stomach do something else she doesn’t have time to think about and she’s honestly got to stop thinking such absurd things. Because then he’s sweeping back into the hall and his boots are heavy on the stairs and she doesn’t have to turn around to see the expectant look on her son’s face. 

She can feel it. Behind her eyelids. 

“So, uh—” Henry starts, but Emma waves both of her hands and she’s not all that surprised he ignored her. It’s a weird thing to be proud of. “He didn’t even argue, you know. When I found him.”  
  
Emma licks her lips. She shivers again. 

And Henry isn’t done.  
  
“I got rid of Black Beard and then he just...I mean, it’s not right. Anything here, and especially Killian because he’s—”  
  
“—Yeah, I know,” Emma whispers. 

“Still didn’t argue, though. He might not remember everything, Mom, but I know he’s—he still cares. About you. About us.”  
  
She hums, a noncommittal sound because her tongue appears to be taking up most of the real estate in her mouth and she’s still as much of a coward as advertised. Even more so than the man who’s not quite the man she—

Emma lets out a shuddering breath, stumbling back against the nearest wall. Her knees have started to wobble as well. 

And Henry doesn’t say anything else. 

She’ll thank him for that eventually. When they get home. Let him play video games for an extra hour or something. 

Maybe go sailing. 

She’d like to go sailing. 

She’d like—

The door swings open again, a tray of food in Killian’s hand and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As if he’s worried it’s wrong. 

Until. 

The warmth of something Emma resolutely refuses to name as soon as her gaze meets his is like falling back into blankets and some joke about the tides and a steady rhythm and his smile stretches, settling on his face like he’s just been waiting for her to make sure it lands there. 

Henry snorts. 

Whatever is in the bowls Killian is holding is steaming. 

“Not exactly dinner at the palace,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. Emma feels her eyes widen. “But it’ll at least keep the chill at bay and—” 

He jerks his chin down, a small pile of fabric Emma hadn’t noticed before tucked under his left arm. Blankets. 

Some of her muscles loosen. 

In a nice way. 

“Thank you,” she says, hoping she’s able to infuse as much emotion into two words as possible. Killian hums, another quick nod that isn’t quite as terrified or concerned and—  
  
“Can we eat?” Henry asks. 

Emma laughs softly, reaching out to grab bowls and blankets and the food isn’t great, but she’s fairly certain none of them have been poisoned. So, she’ll take what she can get at this point. 

And the whole thing is oddly comfortable—blankets strewn across the floor and Henry’s tugged his boots off at some point, recounting his defeat of Black Beard and Killian’s ability to _sail through that storm_ , as if Emma weren’t there too, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to stop. 

Not when his voice picks up that way, excitement and adventure and he’s so sure they’re going to fix this. 

She’ll regret that later, she’s sure. 

Letting that hope linger. 

God, but she’s the most depressing person in any reality. 

Henry’s eyes start to flutter shut eventually, head lolling towards his shoulder and chin bumping against this chest and Emma makes to move, but then Killian’s mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like _I can do it_ and Emma’s far too busy making sure her heart doesn’t explode to object. 

It might explode anyway. 

She tugs her legs closer to her, resting her chin on her knees and eyes never leaving Killian as he hauls Henry up, moving him towards a bed with, she assumes, slightly scratchy sheets. Every shift of Killian’s arms is slow, almost calculated, like he’s holding something important and a word that’s bigger than that, but Emma’s having enough difficulty coming to terms with any of this that she can hardly be expected to care about syntax. 

It’s still snowing out. 

Henry doesn’t wake up when he rolls over, stuffing a hand under his pillow and twisting one leg across the mattress. 

Exactly the same way Emma sleeps. 

And exactly the way Killian has complained about Emma sleeping. Her mind jumps to memories — weeks of calm and seasonally-appropriate snow, tucked into a different bed with sheets that seemed to drape themselves over her skin and her soul and she’s clearly losing her grip on her sanity. It is, Killian frequently tells her, because Emma’s feet refuse to retain their natural heat. 

It makes him jump every time, a soft gasp that leaves her laughing and giggling just a bit and she’ll never admit to that second one, but he always knows and he’s always known and the tenses don’t matter.

Emma shudders, standing up abruptly and all but sprinting towards the window. 

The snow drifts look unnaturally large. If she didn’t know better, hadn’t spent the morning with sweat dripping down her back and hair plastered to her forehead, Emma would think it was Christmas. And if she didn’t know better, hadn’t watched a dragon try and burn her alive a few hours earlier, she would believe that she could be happy here. 

An Enchanted Forest princess with a son and a man who would go to the ends of the world for her, no matter what he believed or who he remembered and she’s started rocking her weight between her feet. There’s a certain rhythm to it, matching up to a song no one else in this realm has probably heard of from a movie Emma only barely remembers the plot of. 

Maybe she can do something about the snow in the morning as well, still emotional enough that her magic could probably move mountains and that may give up their position, but she’s not a battle strategist either or even a pirate and—  
  
“Are you alright ma’am?”  
  
It’s probably for the best that her heart has already exploded. Makes it less likely for it to shatter. Dramatically.

Emma doesn’t look behind her, can’t actually bring herself to move at the sound of Killian’s half-mumbled question and she can see his outline in the foggy glass anyway. He’s got his fingers in his hair. 

“Fine,” she bites out, and the lie tastes bitter on her tongue, threatens to scorch away all those other words hanging there. 

He hums, a step towards her. It’s not as cautious as it’s been in the few hours since he and Henry found her. She can’t believe it’s only been a few hours. 

Emma’s perception of time is entirely skewed — and not just because of the goddamn snow, some twisted winter wonderland that leaves her thinking of more possibility and decidedly misplaced wants and _there are no goddamn clocks in this realm_. She can remember everything and nothing, her real life and her life here, but that’s a generous descriptor for what’s felt like decades chained in a tower. 

She wonders how long it’s really been. 

She wonders if this Killian Jones has ever wanted the same things she does. 

“You may want to practice that a few more times,” he continues, and the floor creaks when he steps that time. “If you’d like me to believe it.”

Emma’s head nearly flies off its neck. “The cheek on you, Captain.”  
  
“I’m not a Captain.”  
  
“God, that’s so weird. It’s—do you have a sword?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Shit. That’s—do you have enough gold for that? I mean...I don’t want to use your life savings or anything here.”  
  
The last thing she expects is him to laugh, so, naturally, that is exactly what happens. Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it, Henry mumbling at the noise, and Emma is not entirely prepared for that specific shade of blue. He’s smirking at her. The asshole. 

“None of this is mine,” Killian says, laughter clinging to the words even as he keeps inching closer to Emma. “Black Beard didn’t leave much of his horde on the ship—wanted to spread things around, you see, make sure no one would be able to rob him, but—”  
  
“—You’re a pirate?” Emma suggest.  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“You’re blushing, though.”

“Aye, that too.”

Emma twists a strand of hair around her fingers, desperate for something to do with all the excess energy she’s suddenly bursting with. And the air around them isn’t quite tension-filled, but there’s a certain charge to it, an electric current that’s always been there. More jokes about tenses. 

“Were you singing just now?” Killian asks. The windows in that room have a distinct draft to them. 

“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“We’re going in circles,” Emma grumbles, and his mouth doesn’t change. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth. 

But it had taken everything in her not to throw her arms around him before, to push her own fingers into his hair and yank him forward, find some kind of steady _something_ in the feel of his mouth against hers and the way he always seems to fall into her. Or the other way around. 

Seriously, syntax is not important right now.

It’s probably best she didn’t. 

Emma would not have been able to cope with it being different. 

“What was the tune?” Killian asks, voice almost steady, and Emma is greedy enough to want the conversation. If only because of the color of his eyes when he looks at her. 

“You wouldn’t know it.”  
  
“Try me.”

“No, honestly, it’s—” She has every intention of being stubborn. She does—walls that she can practically establishing themselves around her heart and her soul and it’s incredible that one person can be so consistently idiotic. 

_He still cares. About you. About us._

“When I was a kid,” Emma starts, sliding down the wall and pointing towards the space next to her. Killian sits. “I used to uh—well I never lived anywhere very long. And this time of year—”  
  
“Summer?”  
  
“Nah, winter. Well, this is fake, but—”  
  
“—The snow felt fairly real when it was falling on us. You were shivering quite a bit, ma’am.”  
  
“Noticed that, did you? And you’ve got to stop with this ma’am stuff.”

“Ma’am stuff,” he drawls.  
  
“God, of course you’d be able to tease me,” Emma grouses, but Killian’s staring at her expectantly. Almost as if he’s waiting for marching orders. That probably doesn’t happen on a boat. Ship. “I just—”  
  
“—The last thing I want to do is offend you.”  
  
The sincerity in the words rock through Emma, leaving her teeth digging into her lip again until she’s threatening to bite the stupid thing in half and Killian’s eyes flicker towards the movement, like he’s thinking about things too and—  
  
“I’m not exactly the most respectable person in the world,” Emma reasons. “A crazy witch with out of control magic.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
“You didn’t know that until Henry found you.”  
  
“Aye,” he agrees. “But I—well, it was easy to believe him.”  
  
Her lungs have got to get a grip. 

Or, whatever. 

Work. She needs her lungs to work. 

“Thank you,” Emma breathes. That’s not the working she was hoping for. “I—well, I…thank you. For all of it. Dashing rescues—”  
  
“—Did you say dashing?”  
  
“If you don’t stop calling me ma’am, I’ll punch you in the face.”

Killian barks out a laugh, the sound leaving him almost looking like him and feeling like him and Emma’s fingers flutter on instinct. With magic. He clenches his jaw. “And, uh—what am I supposed to be calling a magical princess, then?”

“You’re trying to flatter me.”  
  
“Is it working?”  
  
“Maybe,” Emma admits. “More cheek, though.”  
  
“Aye, that’s—unexpected, I suppose. But so are you, Swan, it’s—” Killian cuts himself off, eyes bugging and the veins in his throat are obvious when he jerks back, staring at Emma like she will actually punch him. 

The magic in her vibrates. With want and desire and _goddamn normal_. 

“That works,” she says. 

He blushes again. He might not have ever stopped. “Has that happened before?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“The cold,” Killian says. His voice shifts again, sounding a bit farther away than it had, like he’s trying to place a memory or moment and Emma doesn’t want to hope again. It’s not the best thing to remember, anyway. “You were—we...I was…”  
  
“You were?”  
  
“Worried. Terrified, even. I can—there was ice or—”  
  
“—No, that’s right,” Emma interrupts. “It was a giant wall and it wasn’t really Elsa’s fault, but—”  
  
“—Should I know who Elsa is?”  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
He makes another noise, a slow nod that only serves to shift those pieces of hair clearly designed to ruin Emma’s whole life. “The song, then? It was inspired by the snow?”  
  
“No, I don’t—well, I don’t know, really, but the song is kind of depressing, honestly.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
Emma nods, and her head is close enough to his that her chin nearly bumps his shoulder. She’d like to put her head on his shoulder. That may freak him out. 

It’s kind of freaking her out, admittedly. 

“I haven’t thought about that movie in forever,” Emma continues, “It was old when I used to watch it. A beat up VHS—”  
  
“—What is that?”  
  
She clicks her tongue, not sure how to explain now-redundant technology to a pirate who isn’t her pirate in a realm that does not have clocks. The whole thing makes her head hurt. And it’s just absurd enough to make her laugh a bit too. 

Killian’s eyes flash. 

“That’s not the important part,” Emma says. “And it’s not even really a Christmas movie. It’s, um—well, it’s about a family. In this place called St. Louis—”  
  
“—Is that in the Enchanted Forest?”  
  
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a rather pitiful listener?”  
  
“You’re teasing.”  
  
Emma grins. “St. Louis is not in the Enchanted Forest. It’s a city. In the reality—shit that’s so weird to think about. You know what? That doesn’t matter either. The point is that there was a family and they lived there and then they were going to move. And Judy Garland was upset because the guy she loved—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. 

It feels like it’s weighing down on both of them anyway, more metaphors and passing similarities and she wants him to call her _Swan_ at least forty-seven thousand times. 

“She didn’t want to leave this man, then?” Killian asks. “Judy Garland? Was she a princess as well?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “No, but she did get to go to a ball. At Christmas. With a very red gown.”  
  
“Red?”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
Killian swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth, that same thoughtful look Emma’s grown to memorize and maybe covet just a bit. It’s because it always ends with that pinch between his eyebrows.  
  
“So, John,” Emma adds, “That’s the guy that she loves. HIs name is John and he...he couldn’t get to the ball at first because he didn’t pick up his tuxedo. He was playing basketball.”  
  
“What a strange word.”  
  
“It’s a really strange game if you actually think about it, honestly. Henry’s more into soccer, though, so—we’re drifting from the point.”  
  
“Are we just?”  
  
“You’ll make me think you’re not enjoying my garbage storytelling, Killian.”  
  
The pinch disappears. 

At the same exact time his lips part. 

Seriously, his lips. 

“Does John eventually get to this ball?” 

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Romance conquers all. He gets the tuxedo and they dance and it’s—well, Judy Garland wasn’t shy about being in love with him. She sang about it at the start of the movie, but everything kind of comes to light there and, um...when I was a kid, I always thought it was very pretty.”  
  
“The dancing?”  
  
“The whole thing. Happily ever after.”  
  
She can still see the tip of his tongue pressing into the side of his mouth — another tell for her Killian and this is her Killian, just with altered memories and ridiculous allusions to 1940s musicals and—

“What happened after the ball?”  
  
“John asked Judy Garland to marry him,” Emma says. Her voice cracks. It’s ridiculous. “She says, yes, of course, but they’re still leaving St. Louis and her sister is there and she’s beats up the snowmen.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“They’ve got the most ridiculous snowmen in the backyard and Tootie—”  
  
“—This child’s name is Tootie?”  
  
“I didn’t write the movie.”  
  
He chuckles, slumping a bit against the wall. His hand is very close to Emma’s. “And where does your tune factor in?”  
  
“Uh—before the snowmen, I think. Freshly engaged Judy Garland sings this song called Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It’s...like I said, it’s kind of depressing if you listen to the words and—”  
  
“—What are the words?”

Emma has to swallow as soon as her brain processes that particular tone of voice. Because it’s not nervous. Or anxious. It’s vaguely hopeful and a little greedy as well, an overstep for a cowardly deckhand, but exactly what Killian Jones would do and Killian Jones would come back. 

With his tuxedo. 

Or leather jacket. 

As the case may be. 

“I’m not really a singer,” Emma mutters, ignoring whatever is fluttering in her stomach. Magic, maybe. Emotion, definitely. 

Killian nods, a quiet sound of agreement or acquiesce and that might be what changes everything. The easy way he’s looking at her, like explaining the plot of Meet Me In St. Louis is entirely normal and she can barely herself when she starts to sing under her breath. 

It’s decidedly off-pitch, Emma desperate to keep her voice low and her nerves in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t blink and she shakes slightly when she reaches—  
  
“Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.”  
  
She blinks, sudden tears on her cheeks that are a misplaced sense of warmth and she hates that she’s crying. She hates that she’s feeling, wisps of hope and shards of her own want and Emma can’t imagine there’s even something like Christmas in the Enchanted Forest. 

And she’s just about to apologize for it—for being anything except the Savior everyone always expects her to be, but then there’s a crack and a shift and her magic practically rumbles out of her chest and—  
  
Killian’s thumb brushes across her cheek. 

“Can you—” he stutters, color rising again and tinging the tips of his ears. “The mask. It’s—can you get rid of it?”  
  
She’s going to eventually run out of air to dramatically exhale, Emma is sure. 

In the moment, though, she’s got just enough, body surging forward as soon as the thought clicks into place and he wasn’t scared of the magic. 

He wasn’t scared of her. 

“I’d like to see you,” Killian adds, “If that’s—”  
  
Emma blinks, nose barley settling back to its appropriate place before she’s leaning forward and that same nose is pressed against Killian’s cheek. He doesn’t kiss exactly the same. 

It's not as horrible as she thought it would be. 

It’s softer now—still a little cautious optimism that’s almost as weird as the rules of basketball, and it takes a moment for him to tilt his head, a quick flicker of his tongue that leaves Emma reeling just a bit. That’s all it really takes, then. She lets her fingers fly into his hair, barely any space between them when she clamors closer, knees bumping his side and his hook finding the small of her back. 

Like always. 

She twists and he tilts his head and it’s not quite hungry, but there’s something about it that’s almost like a low simmer, steady and even and normal.  
  
It’s absolutely, totally normal. 

She’s not sure how long they stay there, making out like teenagers on the floor, but it doesn’t matter because Emma is at least ninety-six percent positive she’s just become Killian Jones’ first kiss and the thought leaves her a little dizzy and even more breathless than normal, goosebumps exploding on her skin that don’t have anything to do with the temperature. 

“What happens to them?” Killian asks, pressing the question to the corner of Emma’s mouth. “John and Judy?”  
  
“Her name is Esther in the movie.”  
  
“Another strange moniker.”  
  
She laughs— _giggles_ —and it’s easy to feel Killian’s answering smile against her jaw. “Well, they’re engaged when it ends, and it never really says they get married, but I’d imagine they do after the fair.”  
  
“The fair?”  
  
“That’s a whole other plot point we don’t have time to go into. It’s—c’mon, we should probably get some sleep.”  
  
The smile is gone. “You should sleep, Swan. I can take the watch.”  
  
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Someone should be awake, this isn’t the safest place.” Emma waves her hand, lock clicking into place and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure in Killian’s stunned expression. Or the position of his tongue. “Impressive.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”  
  
“You should at least take the bed, love.”

If he realizes he’s switched endearments, he doesn’t show it, but Emma does — and so does her magic. It roars and soars and some other word that is slightly less positive because the thought of not falling asleep next to him is suddenly the single worst thing she could come up with and—

“There’s enough space,” she reasons. 

Killian wavers for a moment, more than a few quick breaths through gritted teeth. Emma takes her boots off. 

And climbs into the bed.  
  
“The sheets suck though,” she says, and it gets the desired laugh out of him. He probably doesn’t understand the idiom. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He follows her anyway — and that’s a multi-fold thing and maybe they’ll be able to find a copy of Meet Me In St. Louis at home. Maybe she can get another red gown. 

Maybe they can—  
  
“Bloody hell how are your feet so cold?”  
  
Emma buries her face in the pillow to mask her laugh, body shaking despite her best efforts. Killian looks scandalized. 

“Bad circulation, I guess,” Emma reasons. 

“You’ll get frostbite like that, love. That can’t be healthy, I—what?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing, just...I’m sorry about my cold feet.”

He narrows his eyes, looking for the double meaning to _those_ words and he’s always been very perceptive. So. It doesn’t take long for him to understand. “It’s alright,” he says. “Here, c’mere. You can...I’m warm, at least.”

“Yeah, I know.”

It takes some twisting to get comfortable, but that’s really more the sheets than anything and Emma’s head manages to find its way to Killian’s chest, an arm around her middle and lips grazing her hair and—  
  
“Swan. Swan, c’mon—Emma, love, we’ve got to get up.”

She grumbles, pressing her face further into the fabric under her cheek, but that fabric is also moving and the man wearing it is breathing and laughing in her ear and it takes Emma a moment to get her bearings. 

There’s light streaming in through gauzy curtains, a soft roar coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom. No, that’s not right.

Their bedroom. 

In their house. 

With their family. 

It’s—

“Merry Christmas, love,” Killian says. 

Emma jerks her head up, reality rushing back to her and she’d been dreaming. Of a different reality and a past that had been fixed years before. It’s been years. 

What sounds like several different crashes sound from, what she can only imagine, is the general vicinity of the kitchen. 

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles. Killian ducks his head, catches her lips with hers and he laughs again when she objects to his movement. “No, no, you’re comfortable.”

“And warm, I know. But—” He winces at another crash. “I believe the little sea monster is awake and likely determined to open the the rather alarming large mountain of presents she’s been presented with. Also, your parents will be here soon.”  
  
Emma nods, a schedule flitting through her brain that includes breakfast and lunch and dinner that will end with—

“I expect your dance card to be filled tonight, your highness,” Killian adds. He nips at her nose when Emma doesn’t answer immediately, a knowing flash in his gaze and it had been her mother’s idea. 

A ball. 

At Christmas. 

Emma is almost unreasonably excited. If only because those few strands of hair that still fall across Killian’s forehead have started to take on a distinct silver edge and she can’t really think when she notices it. 

She’s anticipating a good deal of making out. In dark corners. 

And dancing. 

“Aye, Captain.”

The flash gets noticeably darker, another kiss they don’t have time for, but that’s also kind of their thing and—

Crash. Several. In quick succession. 

“She might have knocked the tree over,” Emma mutters.  
  
“I’ll go and assess damage. Make sure you put socks on, love. It’s probably cold downstairs.”  
  
Emma salutes—in tandem with her flipping stomach. 

And the kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as she thought it would be, a living room eventually covered in wrapping paper and laughter hanging in the air and Emma lets her mother pin her hair up later. 

The gold matches the red in her gown. 

And the red on Killian’s cheeks as soon as he sees her, one side of mouth tugging up and that same flash—disarmingly familiar and consistent, no matter the realm or the years or the curses they’ve lived through because—

He takes a step forward, a quick bend of his head and lips brushing her knuckles. 

Emma’s magic flutters. 

He lifts his eyebrows. 

“Your highness, ma’am.”  
  
“Captain.”  
  
“It’s a very good color.”  
  
“No problems with the tuxedo?”  
  
Killian shakes his head “I don’t know how to play basketball.”

She can’t help the size of her smile or the force of her magic, memories he probably shouldn’t remember, but they’ve watched the movie enough that he could probably sing the songs by heart now. And he does, humming soft melodies in Emma’s ear all night until she’s dangerously close to swooning. 

In a slightly darkened corner. 

With her husband’s mouth on hers and his hook pressed to the small of her back and happily ever after playing out around them. 


End file.
